CHOPPING SPREE

DIANE MOTT DAVIDSON

PRINCESS WITHOUT THE PRICE TAG JEWELRY-
LEASING EXTRAVAGANZA

Elite Shoppers' Lounge - Westside Mall
Monday, April 11
6 to 8 in the evening

Hors d 'Oeuvre Buffet

Crown of Cheeses: Brie, Gorgonzola, 
Gruyère, Sharp English Cheddar, Camembert

Herb Brioche, Crostini, Homemade Crackers 
and Corn Chips

Tiaras of Strawberries, Raspberries, 
Blueberries, and Star Fruit with Creamy 
Fruit Dressing

Empress Empanadas with Guacamole and Sour 
Cream

Sweethearts' Swedish Meatballs in 
Burgundy Sauce

Golden Shrimp Rolls with Spicy Sauce

Diamond Lovers' Hot Crab Dip

Shoppers' Chocolate Truffles

Cocktails, Premium Wines and Beers

Coffee, Tea, Chai, and Espresso Drinks

-1-
Success can kill you.

   So my best friend had been telling me, 
anyway. Too much success is like arsenic 
in chocolate cake. Eat a slice a day, 
Marla announced with a sweep of her 
plump, bejeweled fingers, and you'll get 
cancer. Gobble the whole cake? You'll 
keel over and die on the spot.

   These observations, made over the 
course of a snowy March, had not cheered 
me. Besides, I'd have thought that Marla, 
with her inherited wealth and passion for 
shopping, would applaud the upward leap 
of my catering business. But she said she 
was worried about me.

   Frankly, I was worried about me, too. 
In mid-March I'd invited Marla over to 
taste cookies. Despite a sudden but 
typical Colorado blizzard, she'd roared 
over to our small house off Aspen 
Meadow's Main Street in her shiny new BMW 
four-wheel drive. Sitting in our 
commercial kitchen, she'd munched on 
ginger snaps and spice cookies, and 
harped on the fact that the newly frantic 
pace of my work had coincided with my 
fourteen-year-old son Arch's increasingly 
rotten behavior. I knew Marla doted on 
Arch.

   But in this, too, she was right.

   Arch's foray into athletics, begun 
that winter with snowboarding and a stint 
on his school's fencing team, had ended 
with a trophy, a sprained ankle, and an 
unprecedented burst of physical self-
confidence. He'd been eager to plunge 
into spring sports. When he'd decided on 
lacrosse, I'd been happy for him. That 
changed when I attended the first game. 
Watching my son forcefully shove an 
opponent aside and steal the ball, I'd 
felt queasy. With Arch's father - a rich 
doctor who'd had many violent episodes 
himself - now serving time for parole 
violation, all that slashing and hitting 
was more than I could take.

   But even more worrisome than the sport 
itself, Marla and I agreed, were Arch's 
new teammates: an unrepentant gang of 
spoiled, acquisitive brats. 
Unfortunately, Arch thought the lacrosse 
guys were beyond cool. He spent hours 
with them, claiming that he "forgot" to 
tell us where he was going after 
practice. We could have sent him an e-
mail telling him to call, Arch protested, 
if he only had what all his pals had, to 
wit, Internet-access watches. Your own 
watch could hove told you what time it 
was, I'd told him, when I picked him up 
from the country-club estate where the 
senior who was supposed to drive him home 
had left him off.

   Arch ignored me. These new friends, 
he'd announced glumly, also had Global 
Positioning System calculators, Model 
Bezillion Palm pilots, and electric-
acoustic guitars that cost eight hundred 
dollars - and up. These litanies were 
always accompanied with not-so-tactful 
reminders that his fifteenth birthday was 
right around the corner. He wanted 
everything on his list, he announced as 
he tucked a scroll of paper into my 
purse. After all, with all the parties 
I'd booked, I could finally afford to get 
him some really good stuff.

   And no telling what'll happen if I 

don't get what I want, he'd added darkly. 
(Marla informed me that he'd already 
given her a list.) I'd shrugged as Arch 
clopped into the house ahead of me. I'd 
started stuffing sautéed chicken breasts 
with wild rice and spinach. The next day, 
Tom had picked up Arch at another 
friend's house. When my son waltzed into 
the kitchen, I almost didn't recognize 
him.

   His head was shaved.

   "They Bic'd me," he declared, tossing 
a lime into the air and catching it in 
the net of his lacrosse stick.

   "They bicked you?" I exclaimed 
incredulously.

   "Bic, Mom. Like the razor." He rubbed 
his bare scalp, then flipped the lime 
again. "And I would have been home on 
time, if you'd bought me the Palm, to 
remind me to tell the guy shaving my head 
that I had to go."

   I snagged the lime in midair. "Go 
start on your homework, I buster. You got 
a C on the last anatomy test. And from 
now on, either Tom or I will pick you up 
right from practice."

   On his way out of the kitchen, he 
whacked his lacrosse stick on the floor. 
I called after him please not to do that. 
I got no reply. The next day, much to 
Arch's sulking chagrin, Tom had picked 
him up directly from practice. If being 
athletic is what success at that school 
looks like, Tom told me, then maybe Arch 
should take up painting. I kept mum. The 
next day, I was ashamed to admit, I'd 
pulled out Arch's birthday list and 
bought him the Palm pilot.

   Call it working mom's guilt, I'd 
thought, as I stuffed tiny cream puffs 
with shrimp salad. Still, I was not sorry 
I was making more money than ever before. 
I did not regret that Goldilocks' 
Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right! 
had gone from booked to overbooked.

   Finally, I was giving those caterers 
in Denver, forty miles to the east, a run 
for their shrimp rolls. This was what I'd 
always wanted, right?

   Take my best upcoming week, I'd 
explained to Marla as she moved on to 
test my cheesecake bars and raspberry 
brownies. The second week of April, I 
would make close to ten thousand dollars 
- a record. I'd booked an upscale 
cocktail party at Westside Mall, a wed- 
ding reception, and two big luncheons. 
Once I survived all that, Friday, April 
the fifteenth, was Arch's birthday. By 
then, I'd finally have the cash to buy 
him something, as Arch himself had said, 
really good.

   "Goldy, don't do all that," Marla 
warned as she downed one of my new Spice-
of-Life Cookies. The buttery cookies 
featured large amounts of ginger, 
cinnamon, and freshly grated nutmeg, and 
were as comforting as anything from 
Grandma's kitchen. "You'll be too 
exhausted even to make a birthday cake. 
Listen to me, now. You need to decrease 
your bookings, hire some help, be 
stricter with Arch, and take care of 
yourself for a change. If you don't, 
you're going to die."

   Marla was always one for the 
insightful observation.

   I didn't listen. At least, not soon 
enough. The time leading up to that 
lucrative week in April became even 
busier and more frenetic. Arch 
occasionally slipped away from practice 
before Tom, coming up from his 
investigative work at the sheriff's 
department, could snag him. I was unable 
to remember the last time I'd had a 
decent night's sleep. So I suppose it was 
inevitable that, at ten-twenty on the 
morning of April eleventh, I had what's 
known in the shrink business as a crisis. 
At least, that's what they'd called it 
years ago, during my pursuit of a 
singularly unhelpful degree in 
psychology.

   I was inside our walk-in refrigerator 
when I blacked out. Just before hitting 
the walk-in's cold floor, I grabbed a 
metal shelf. Plastic bags of tomatoes, 
scallions, celery, shallots, and 
gingerroot spewed in every direction, and 
my bottom thumped the floor. I thought, I 
don't have time for this.

   I struggled to get up, and belatedly 
realized this meltdown wasn't that hard 
to figure out. I'd been up since five 
A.M. With one of the luncheon preps done, 
I was focusing on the mall cocktail party 
that evening. Or at least I had been 
focusing on it, before my eyes, legs, and 
back gave out.

   I groaned and quickly gathered the 
plastic bags. My back ached. My mind 
threw out the realization that I still 
did not know where Arch had been for 
three hours the previous afternoon, when 
lacrosse practice had been canceled. 
Neither Tom nor I had been aware of the 
calendar change. Tom had finally 
collected Arch from a seedy section of 
Denver's Colfax Avenue. So what had this 
about-to-turn-fifteen-year-old been up to 
this time? Arch had refused to say.

   "Just do the catering," I announced to 
the empty refrigerator. I replaced the 
plastic bags and asked the Almighty for 
perspective. Arch would get the third 
degree when he came down for breakfast. 
Meanwhile, I had work to do.

   Before falling on my behind, I'd been 
working on a concoction I'd dubbed 
Shoppers' Chocolate Truffles. These rich 
goodies featured a dense, smooth 
chocolate interior coated with more 
satiny chocolate. So what had I been 
looking for in the refrigerator? I had no 
idea. I stomped out and slammed the door.

   I sagged against the counter and told 
myself the problem was fatigue. Or maybe 
my age - thirty-four - was kicking in. 
What would Marla say? She'd waggle a fork 
in my face and preach about the wages of 
success.

   I brushed myself off and quick-stepped 
to the sink. As water gushed over my 
hands, I remembered I'd been searching 
for the scoops of ganache, that sinfully 
rich mélange of melted bittersweet 
chocolate, heavy cream, and liqueur that 
made up the heart of the truffles.

   I dried my hands and resolved to 
concentrate on dark chocolate, not the 
darker side of success. After all, I had 
followed one of Marla's suggestions: I 
had hired help. But I had not cut back on 
parties. I'd forgotten what taking care 
of myself even felt like. And I seemed 
incapable of being stricter with Arch.

   I scanned the kitchen. The ganache 
balls, still wrapped, sat pristinely on 
the marble counter. Next to it, my double 
boiler steamed on the stovetop. OK, so 
I'd already taken them out. I'd simply 
forgotten.

   I hustled over to my new kitchen 
computer and booted it up, intent on 
checking that evening's assignment. Soon 
my new printer was spitting out lists of 
needed foodstuffs, floor plans, and 
scheduled setup. I may have lost my mind, 
but I'd picked it right up again.

   "This is what happens when you give up 
caffeine!" I snarled at the ganache 
balls. Oops - that was twice I'd talked 
to myself in the last five minutes. Marla 
would not approve.

   I tugged the plastic wrap off the 
globes of ganache and spooned up a sample 
to check the consistency. The smooth, 
intense dark chocolate sent a zing of 
pleasure up my back. I moved to the 
stovetop, stirred the luxurious pool of 
melting chocolate, and took a whiff of 
the intoxicatingly rich scent. I told 
myself - silently - that everything was 
going to be all right. The party-goers 
were going to love me.

   The client for that night's cocktail 
party was Barry Dean, an old friend who 
was now manager of Westside Mall, an 
upscale shopping center abutting the 
foothills west of Denver. I'd previously 
put on successful catered parties at 
Westside. Each time, the store owners had 
raved. But Barry Dean, who'd only been 
managing the mall for six months, had 
seemed worried about the party's dessert 
offering. I'd promised him his high-end 
spenders, for whom the party was geared, 
would flip over the truffles.

   Maybe I'd even get a big tip, I 
thought as I scraped down the sides of 
the double boiler. I could spend it on a 
new mattress. On it, I might eventually 
get some sleep.

   I stopped and took three deep breaths. 
My system craved coffee. Of course, I 
hadn't given up espresso entirely. I was 
just trying to cut back from nine shots a 
day to two. Too much caffeine was causing 
my sleeplessness, Marla had declared. Of 
course, since we'd both been married to 
the same doctor - consecutively, not 
concurrently - she and I were self-
proclaimed experts on all physical 
ailments. (Med Wives 101, we called it.) 
So I'd actually heeded her advice. My 
plan had been to have one shot at eight 
in the morning (a distant memory), 
another at four in the afternoon (too far 
in the future). Now my resolve was 
melting faster than the dark chocolate.

   I fired up the espresso machine and 
wondered how I'd gotten into such a 
mental and physical mess.

   Innocently enough, my mind replied. 
Without warning, right after Valentine's 
Day, my catering business had taken off. 
An influx of ultrawealthy folks to Denver 
and the mountain area west of the Mile 
High City had translated into massive 
construction of trophy homes, purchases 
of multiple upscale cars, and doubling of 
prices for just about everything. Most 
important from my viewpoint, the demand 
for big-ticket catered events had 
skyrocketed. From mid-February to the 
beginning of April, a normally slow 
season, my assignments had exploded. I'd 
thought I'd entered a zone, as they say 
in Boulder, of bliss.

   I pulled a double shot of espresso, 
then took a sip and felt infinitely 
better.

   I rolled the first silky scoop of 
ganache into a ball, and set it aside. 
What had I been thinking about? Ah, yes. 
Success.

   I downed more coffee and set aside the 
porcelain bought-on-clearance cup, a 
remnant of my financial dark days. Those 
days had lasted a long time, a fact that 
Arch seemed to block out. When I began 
divorce proceedings against the 
ultracute, ultra-vicious Doctor John 
Richard Korman, I'd been so determined 
that he would support our son well that 
I'd become an Official Nosy Person. 
Files, tax returns, credit card receipts, 
check stubs, bank deposits - I'd found 
and studied them all. My zealous 
curiosity had metamorphosed into a decent 
settlement. Wasn't it Benjamin Franklin 
who'd said, God helps those who help 
themselves? Old Ben had been right.

   I bathed the first dark ganache globe 
in chocolate. OK, I'd replaced marital 
bitterness with bittersweet chocolate and 
bitter orange marmalade, right? And my 
life had turned around. Two years ago, 
I'd married Tom Schulz. As unreal as my 
newly minted financial success might 
seem, I did not doubt the miracle of my 
relationship with Tom, whose work as a 
police investigator had actually brought 
us together in the first place. Tom was 
bighearted and open-armed toward both 
Arch and me. So far, Tom and I had passed 
the tests that had been flung our way, 
and emerged still together. In this day 
and age, I thought, such commitment was 
commendable.

   And yet, I reflected as I placed the 
sumptuous truffle on a rack to dry, one 
of the reasons I'd been so happy about my 
sudden financial success was that I'd 
vowed never to depend on Tom's income. My 
earnings were now on a par with Tom's. 
After the money battles with The Jerk, 
financial independence was a phenomenon 
I'd sworn to attain and keep. 
Unfortunately, before marrying Tom, my 
profits had stayed in a zone between Can 
feed Arch and keep gas in van to Going 
down fast; write for law school catalogs.

   I rolled ganache balls, bathed them in 
chocolate, and set them aside to dry. 
Scoop, bathe, set aside. Marla could 
grouse all she wanted; I savored my new 
success. I was even considering 

purchasing a new set of springform pans, 
since I'd already bought a new computer, 
printer, and copier, not to mention new 
tableware, flatware, and knives - a 
shining set of silver Henckels. I 
relished no longer renting plates, 
silverware, and linens! I laughed aloud 
when I finished the twentieth truffle, 
and made myself another espresso. The 
dark drink tasted divine. No wonder they 
called financial solvency liquidity.

   I rewarded myself with a forkful of 
ganache, which sparked more fireworks of 
chocolate ecstasy. I did a little two-
step and thanked the Almighty for 
chocolate, coffee, and business growth.

   Roll, bathe, set aside. I was 
appreciative that I had scads of new 
clients. In hiring me, they offered 
testimonies from friends (Marla in 
particular), or claimed they'd caught the 
reruns of my short-lived PBS cooking 
show. Some even said they just had to 
hire this caterer they'd read about, the 
one who helped her husband solve the 
occasional murder case. Well, why they 
hired me didn't matter. New clients were 
new clients, and glitzy parties paid the 
bills. It had been stupendous.

   For a while. Now I looked and felt 
like zabaglione, frothy after being 
beaten too hard. And I was unsure of what 
was going on with my son. I rolled, 
bathed, and set aside more truffles, all 
the while avoiding my reflection in the 
kitchen window. I knew what I'd see 
there: a haggard face with licorice-black 
bags under bloodshot eyes, not to mention 
a fret-work of worry-wrinkles. My freshly 
shampooed, too-busy-to-get-a-cut blond 
hair, which people had always likened to 
Shirley Temple's' corkscrew curls, now 
gave me the look of a soaked poodle.

   You're obsessing again, I scolded 
myself as I set the thirtieth truffle on 
the rack. You'll just make things worse.

   I focused on the ganache. As if to 
prove my truffles were indeed, worthy of 
Westside's best-heeled shoppers, I'd 
offered one from an earlier batch to 
handsome, brown-haired Barry Dean, who, 
years ago, had taken a psych class with 
me at the University of Colorado. Back 
then, he'd flirted with me, he'd given me 
notes when I missed a lecture, he'd taken 
me out in his Mercedes for coffee after 
class. I'd patted his basset hound, 
Honey, who lay in regal repose on a 
blanket in the backseat. Tucking into our 
cappuccinos, lattes, and espressos con 
panna, Barry and I prided ourselves on 
being the only two coffee connoisseurs on 
the Boulder campus. I'd enjoyed our 
outings immensely.

   The previous week, I'd given him the 
chocolate during our second meeting in 
Westside's new shoppers' lounge. Quickly 
downing three truffles, Barry had vented 
his frustration over the chronic delays 
in Westside's second remodeling in five 
years. His construction manager had quit 
in a huff and moved to Arizona; his 
volatile excavator promised one thing, 
then did another. Since I'd had my own 
remodeling disaster, I'd murmured 
sympathetically.

   Barry had eaten six more truffles - 
the man was stressed out - as we hammered 
out the party details. He offered to 
drive me back to my van. On the way, he 
promised, as he downed his tenth truffle, 
he'd take me out for coffee. Just like 
the old days.

   At the espresso drive-through known as 
The Westside Buzz, the barista had 
recognized Barry. A Denver newspaper had 
just named him The Mile High Citys Most 
Eligible Bachelor; and the barista went 
nuts. After she got over squealing, 
making change, and handing us our drinks, 
Barry had demonstrated the turbo on his 
new Saab (bought because someone had 
crashed into his Mercedes) to zoom away. 
At a red light, he'd shown me the car's 
stereo, CD player, fan ventilation of 
perforated leather seats, and other bells 
and whistles. The man loved cars, no 
question about it. I'd laughed and asked 
if he wanted another truffle. He'd placed 
his drink into the retractable cup 
holder, mouthed a drumroll, and popped 
another truffle - his eleventh - into his 
mouth. To my delight, he'd opened his 
gorgeous brown eyes wide and yodeled as 
he soared into a state of chocolate 
euphoria. Upon recovering, he'd ordered 
sixty. He feigned amnesia and panted, 
Construction? What construction?

   I smiled, remembering. I bathed the 
fortieth ganache ball in dark chocolate, 
set it on the rack, and gave it a stiff 
appraisal. I had to admit, it had amnesia 
potential.

   I took a deep breath and ordered 
myself not to indulge in another taste 
until all sixty of the chocolates were 
made. Instead, I had to start planning 
Arch's birthday.

   At the moment, Arch was still asleep, 
as the Elk Park Prep teachers were 
meeting for an in-service. School that 
day didn't start till noon, my son had 
announced the previous night, and could 
we spend the morning shopping? I'd said 
no, I had to work. And besides, where had 
he been the previous day? He'd sighed. 
Then he'd pushed his glasses up his nose 
so he could give me the full benefit of 
his pleading eyes, which seemed huge 
against the background of his shaved 
head. Had I started purchasing any items 
on his birthday list? he asked.

   I swallowed. I'd only bought the Palm; 
I hadn't had time for anything else. Arch 
had hoisted his bookbag and stalked out 
of the kitchen. I yelled after him that 
no matter how much money you had, it was 
never enough. He'd called back something 
unintelligible.

   I rolled another ball of ganache and 
longed to stuff it into my mouth. 
Instead, I dipped it into the dark 
chocolate. Marla's warnings haunted me. 
What, exactly, was enough? On our day of 
planning, Barry Dean had told me about 
the jewelry-event-cum-cocktail-party 
guests, members of Westside's Elite 
Shoppers Club. The "Elites," as Barry 
called them, spent a minimum of a 
thousand dollars a week at the mall. 
Membership in the group guaranteed 
special coupons, special sales, valet 
parking, and events like the jewelry-
leasing extravaganza I was catering that 
night. One thing I had asked Barry: Where 
did the Elites put all the stuff they 
bought? He'd winked, done his endearing-
bachelor shrug, and said usually they 
rented storage sheds.

   Perhaps buying wasn't the future of 
retail, Barry had added. Take jewelry 
leasing, for example, for which there was 
no need to store anything permanently. 
You, too, Goldy, for two thousand, four 
thousand, or six thousand bucks a month, 
could wear a different piece of ultra-
glam jewelry every thirty days. Twenty 
percent off the cost of the yearly lease 
for all mall employees! I'd laughed and 
told him that none of the pieces I'd 
glimpsed - diamond, emerald, ruby, and 
sapphire necklaces - matched a single one 
of my aprons.

   My business line rang. I put down the 
truffle, wiped my fingers on my stained 
apron, and actually prayed that this was 
not another new client.

   "Goldilocks' Catering - "

   "You're working," Marla accused.

   "No, really, I was sleeping in. Then 
my best friend called and woke me up."

   "Yeah, sure." She swallowed something. 
I guessed it was her latest version of 
hot chocolate, which consisted of hot 
cream, cocoa, and low-cal sweetener. Even 
though Marla had had a heart attack 
almost two years before, she'd had little 
luck losing weight on a low-fat, high-
carb, low-protein diet. So now she was 
trying a some-fat, some-carb, high-
protein diet. She claimed she'd lost six 
pounds and felt much better. When I'd 
asked what her cardiologist thought of 
the new regimen, she'd hung up on me. You 
had to be careful with Marla.

   Now I said, "OK, I was trying to roll 
truffles, until my best friend called and 
forced me to smear chocolate all over my 
new apron."

   "Quit bellyaching." She started 
munching on something, I didn't want to 
imagine what. "Yesterday I gave Arch a 
package for you. It's in your freezer. I 
want you to open it." I sighed, thinking 
of all the work I had to do. "While I'm 
talking to you, if you don't mind."

   I knew my life would be much easier if 
I just tucked the phone against my 
shoulder, wrenched open the freezer door 
of the walk-in, and did as bidden. So I 
did. After a moment of groping, I pulled 
a very cold brown paper bag from a shelf. 
The bag contained - oh, joy - a pint of 
Haagen-Dazs coffee ice cream, hand-
labeled "A," and a brown bottle of time-
release vitamins, marked "B."

   "OK, get a spoon and a glass of 
water," Marla commanded when she heard 
the paper rustling. "Take a spoonful of 
A, then a capsule of B. Now."

   I again followed orders. The ice cream 
improved my mood, no question. But when I 
tried to swallow the vitamin, I choked.

   "I can't believe you're doing the 
event tonight," Marla cried, not heeding 
my wheezing gasps. "You'll wreck my 
shopping experience, and everyone else's. 
You think people want a caterer who looks 
half dead? Shoppers want to escape 
reality, Goldy. They want to feel rich. 
They want to feel young. They'll take one 
look at you and say, Why should I shop? 
She’s gonna die and so am I."

   I finally swallowed the vitamin and 
croaked, "Are you done talking about me 
kicking the bucket? 'Cuz I've got 
truffles to coat."

   "No!" Marla wailed. "I need to bitch 
some more, and you're the only one who's 
home."

   I refired the espresso machine, tucked 
the phone against my ear, and resumed 
work on the truffles.

   Marla went on, her husky voice laced 
with anger: "I was going to lease the 
double strand of diamonds for the first 
month. They're perfect for the March of 
Dimes luncheon. But six thou a month? 
What'll I have left to give the March of 
Dimes?" She paused to devour more food. 
One of the whole-grain muffins I'd made 
her? Unlikely. "Then I heard that Page 
Stockham, also an Elite Shopper, wanted 
the same necklace. So now I'm trying to 
decide between a ruby chain and an 
emerald set in three rows of diamonds, in 
case Page gets it first. Oh, Page 
Stockham just makes me so angry. And to 
think I asked her to go with me to 
tonight's event."

   "To think," I murmured 
sympathetically.

   She ignored me. "Making matters even 
worse, Ellie McNeely wants the double 
pearl strand with the aquamarine, which 
I've had my eye on forever to go with a 
dinner I'm giving in May that I was 
hoping you'd cater, if you're not dead. 
Wait a minute, there's someone at the 
door."

   I mm-hmmed and continued dipping. 
Ellie McNeely, whom I'd done fund-raising 
with over a decade ago in the Episcopal 
Church Women, was an old friend from my 
rich-doctor's-wife years, one of the few 
old friends who'd remained a pal in my 
postdivorce, service-industry years. Page 
Stockham was the wife of Shane Stockham, 
Arch's lacrosse coach, and I knew her not 
at all. But the key fact from a caterer's 
perspective was that Page, Ellie, and 
Marla all had money to burn.

    Waiting for Marla to return to the 
phone, I kept on with the truffles. Six 
to go. Roll, bathe, set aside. What had I 
been thinking about? Oh, yes, money to 
burn. I wasn't resentful, though, because 
moneyed folks were my best clients. And 
anyway, who was I to judge anyone else's 
shopping?

   My eyes traveled to the carved wooden 
cupboard hanging over our kitchen table. 
I truly did not want to look down on 
folks who engaged in retail therapy. The 
reason was that during my divorce from 
The Jerk, and despite near-dire financial 
straits, I'd been a shop-to-feel-better 
gal myself. On weekends when it was John 
Richard's turn to have Arch, I'd visited 
every shopping center I could find. I'd 
strolled through perfume-scented air, by 
gorgeously stacked goods, past gaggle 
after gaggle of smiling, prosperous 
people. I'd loitered in front of brightly 
lit displays of embroidered baby clothes, 
rainbow-hued designer sheets, sleek 
copper pots and pans, even sugared, 
sparkling cinnamon rolls. I'd allowed 
myself to feel rich, even if my bank 
account said otherwise.

   Come to think of it, maybe that was 
what Arch had been doing the previous 
day: shopping. Still, there weren't any 
luxury shops on East Colfax.

   I retucked the silent phone against my 
ear, rolled another truffle, but stopped 
again to ponder the cupboard shelves. On 
each of those long-ago shopping trips, 
I'd bought myself a little something from 
the "Drastically Reduced" tables. My 
white porcelain demitasse cup and saucer, 
a tiny crystal mouse, a miniature wooden 
car laden with painted wooden gifts - all 
these had made me uncommonly happy. At 
home, I'd placed my minuscule treasures 
on the old cupboard's shelves. Without 
the stores' strong overhead lights, the 
little crystal mouse had not looked quite 
so brilliant; the cheap china cup had 
lost its translucence. But I'd never 
cared. Each piece had been mine, 
something for me, a small token of an 
inner voice, too long silenced, saying, 
"I love you." So who was I to judge Marla 
or her friends, Page Stockham and Ellie 
McNeely? They all wanted someone, even if 
it was themselves, to say, I really, 
really care about you! And to prove it, 
have this!

   Marla came back to the phone and said 
Ellie had arrived, and she had to go. 
Before the event, she, Ellie, and Page, 
who was driving down separately with 
husband Shane, would be getting the mud 
soak, the coconut-milk bath, and the 
vegetable-and-fruit wrap at Westside Spa.

   "I'll watch for a moving luau."

   "I'll catch you at the party," Marla 
retorted, undaunted, and signed off.

   I rolled the fifty-eighth truffle. 
Then, lowering the scoop of ganache into 
the melted chocolate and setting it aside 
to dry, I made another espresso. To the 
far west, just visible out our back 
windows, a bright mist cloaked the 
mountains of the Aspen Meadow Wildlife 
Preserve. On the nearer hills, white-
barked aspens nestled between dark 
expanses of fir, spruce, and pine. I 
peered at our thermometer. The red line 
was stubbornly stuck at twenty-nine 
degrees. So this is Springtime in the 
Rockies.? newcomers always asked. This is 
it, I invariably replied. In June, you 
can take off your snow tires.

   I slugged down what I vowed would be 
my last coffee. Once again, worry 
surfaced. Where had Arch been yesterday? 
The rumor was that the rookies on the 
lacrosse team had been told their 
initiation would not be complete until 
they shoplifted something worth more than 
fifty dollars. Thinking about that 
possibility, my heart plummeted.

   I disciplined myself to roll the next-
to-last truffle. It broke into two pieces 
when I dunked it in the dark chocolate. 
Oh, darn! Guess I'll have to eat it, 
maybe with a fifth espresso! I pulled out 
the chocolate chunks swimming in the dark 
coating, placed them on the rack, then 
refilled the espresso doser. I rinsed the 
old porcelain demitasse cup and closed my 
eyes. Worry for Arch nagged at me. I 
balanced on one foot. I was so tired. . . 
. And then my much-loved cup slipped from 
my fingers. It shattered on the floor 
with a heartbreaking crash. Shards raced 
across the wood; bits of china smashed 
into the molding and sent reverberating 
tinkles throughout the kitchen.

   My best shopping treasure was gone. 
Later, I tried not to think of it as an 
omen.

Spice-of-Life Cookies

2 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking soda
¼ teaspoon salt
1 ½ teaspoons ground cinnamon
2 teaspoons ground ginger
1 ½ teaspoons ground cloves
1/8 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
¼ cup solid vegetable shortening
½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter
1 cup sugar
1 large egg
¼ cup molasses
¼ teaspoon very finely minced lemon zest

   Preheat the oven to 375°F. Butter 2 
cookie sheets.
   Sift together the flour, soda, salt, 
cinnamon, ginger, cloves, and nutmeg. Set 
aside.
   In a large mixing bowl, cream the 
shortening, butter, and sugar until very 
light and fluffy, about 4 minutes. Beat 
in the egg, molasses, and zest until well 
combined. Stir in the flour mixture until 
well combined, with no traces of flour 
visible.
   Using a 1 tablespoon scoop, measure 
the cookies onto the cookie sheets, 
keeping them 2 inches apart Do not 
attempt to make more than one dozen per 
sheet. Bake the batches one at a time, 
just until the cookies have puffed and 
flattened and have a crinkly surface, 9 
to 12 minutes per batch. Cool the cookies 
for 1 minute before removing to racks. 
Cool the cookies completely on racks. 
Makes 32 cookies

Shoppers' Chocolate Truffles

Ganache:
½ cup heavy cream
1 tablespoon Grand Marnier liqueur
¼ teaspoon vanilla extract
11 ounces best-quality bittersweet
  chocolate, very finely chopped 
(recommended brand: Valrhona)
2 tablespoons (1/4 stick) unsalted
  butter, softened
Cocoa powder for rolling (recommended
  brand: Hershey's Premium 
  European-Style)

Coating:
6 ounces best-quality bittersweet
  chocolate (recommended brand: Godiva
  Dark)
1 to 2 tablespoons clarified butter or
  solid vegetable shortening

   Pour the cream into a heavy 1-quart or 
larger saucepan. Add the liqueur and 
vanilla and heat over medium to medium-
high heat until the mixture reaches 
190°F. Remove the mixture from the heat, 
add the chopped chocolate, and stir 
vigorously until the chocolate melts and 
the mixture is shiny. If all the 
chocolate does not melt, you can briefly 
return the pan to the burner over low 
heat, stirring constantly just until the 
chocolate melts, when the pan needs to be 
immediately removed from the heat. Scrape 
the ganache into a bowl and allow it to 
cool at room temperature. (Do not attempt 
to hasten the cooling in any way.) When 
the ganache reaches 90°F, beat in the 
butter. Allow the ganache to cool until 
it is firm.

   Using a 1 tablespoon ice-cream scoop, 
measure out the firm ganache into balls 
and place them on a cookie sheet lined 
with a silicone (Sil-Pat) sheet. Cover 
loosely with plastic wrap. Chill 
overnight in the refrigerator.

   Remove the chocolate from the 
refrigerator and dust your hands with 
cocoa powder. Roll each mound into a 
smooth ball, then place it back on the 
cookie sheet. When all the ganache mounds 
have been rolled, return the cookie sheet 
to the refrigerator.

   In a double boiler, melt the chocolate 
used for the coating with a tablespoon of 
the clarified butter or shortening. Whisk 
it well until thoroughly combined and 
melted. Line another cookie sheet with 
aluminum foil. Working one at a time, 
drop a chilled ball of ganache into the 
coating chocolate, roll it around gently 
with a fork until it is completely 
covered, then lift it out of the pan, 
scrape off the excess chocolate on the 
side of the pan, and place the truffle on 
the aluminum foil. Work in this way until 
all the truffles are coated. If the 
coating chocolate begins to seize and 
become recalcitrant, add a bit more 
clarified butter to it and stir and melt 
as before. Work until all the truffles 
are coated. Allow the coating to set up 
and cool on the truffles. (This usually 
takes over an hour.) Serve.

Makes between 12 and 15 truffles
(The recipe can be doubled, if desired.)

-2-
   I swept up the mess and went back to 
work. I was cloaking the final ganache 
globe with chocolate when ToD1 and Arch 
banged into the kitchen. Arch was 
clutching his usual sixty-five pounds of 
books, electronic gadgets, and athletic 
equipment. Lots and lots of athletic 
equipment.

   At the second lacrosse game, I'd 
watched in horror as a forward had come 
barreling down the field, bearing down on 
Arch. My formerly little, formerly 
passive son set himself into a tough-
gladiator defensive stance. When Arch 
pushed his weight into the forward's 
chest, the kid went flying. The team 
wildly applauded my son. I'd thought I 
was going to be ill.

   The lacrosse players weren't the only 
thing that upset me about Elk Park Prep. 
The majority of EPP students were rich, 
undisciplined, and self-centered. A 
minority wreaked true havoc. 
Unfortunately, most of this contingent's 
bad behavior - throwing acid on kids in 
chem lab, drinking to the point of 
oblivion at football games, stealing 
liquor for house parties when parents 
were absent - went unpunished. I'd longed 
to call our local rag, the Mountain 
Journal, to report these incidents, after 
hearing about them at parties I catered. 
But Arch had made me swear not to.

   I often worried about where all the 
misbehavior would lead. Unfortunately, 
the EPP teachers and administrators 
kissed the feet of the biggest donors. 
But besides the killer lacrosse and lack 
of consequences for big-time mischief, 
what bothered me most these days was 
EPP's free-wheeling curriculum. Take that 
anatomy class. On second thought, don't. 
This week, I was driving a contingent of 
Arch's classmates to Lutheran Hospital, 
where they would dissect. . . a cadaver.

   I sighed. Get used to it, I always 
told myself. With the Furman County 
public school student-teacher ratio at 
fifty to one, and with Elk Park's hefty 
tuition coming out of The Jerk's hoard of 
cash, getting used to it was exactly what 
I needed to do.

   I set the last truffle aside to dry 
and glanced at Tom. He looked dashing in 
a white shirt, gray pants, and my 
favorite wool sweater, a crewneck 
pullover the color of oatmeal. His brown 
hair was combed up at a jaunty angle, and 
his spicy aftershave wafted my way. I 
hurried over and kissed him on the cheek. 
He smooched my forehead and asked if I'd 
like more coffee. Dear Tom. He'd known my 
attempt to cut back on caffeine would be 
short-lived.

   I said yes, then patted Arch on the 
shoulder, which was all the maternal 
affection he'd allow these days. My son - 
now surpassing me in height (not hard, 
since I'm five feet two inches) - slid 
away hastily and adjusted his new John 
Lennon-style wire-rimmed glasses. The 
previous month, I'd offered to buy him 
contacts. He'd replied that what he 
really wanted was laser surgery. He'd 
need eight thousand bucks, though, to get 
the great surgeon the Elk Park kids used.

   I'd bought him new glasses.

   Checking his reflection in the window, 
Arch ducked his chin to assess the new 
tobacco-brown fuzz on his scalp. He then 
checked his choker of shell bits, 
smoothed the oversized khakis and rumpled 
plaid shirt that were the school's 
unofficial uniform, and frowned. 
Something was bothering him.

   "Uh, Arch?" I ventured rashly. "Where 
were you yesterday afternoon?"

   "What's it to you?"

   "Is that polite?" I asked.

   "Is it polite to be nosy?"

   I gave up. Tom offered me a cream-
laced espresso. It was my sixth of the 
morning . . . amazing how these things 
add up. I slurped the fragrant drink-
blissfully similar to hot coffee ice 
cream-and faced my next task: breakfast 
for Arch. Lacrosse players, I was always 
telling him, needed a large morning meal 
so they could build the strength to pound 

on each other.

   I retrieved English muffins, eggs, 
butter, and jam, and tried to ignore the 
fact that Arch was guzzling an energy 
drink. When I'd said I was giving up 
caffeine, he'd advised me to switch to 
the bottled concoction known as Virtuous 
Vigor. I'd tried one swig, and choked.

   "Tom? Arch? In ten minutes, I can give 
you a late breakfast or an early lunch. . 
. your choice."

   "No time, Mom," Arch replied as he 
simultaneously tossed the energy drink 
bottle into the trash and snagged another 
one. "Ready to go, Tom?" When Tom replied 
that he was, Arch said, "Oops, I need to 
get my spare long stick."

   The long stick, I'd learned, is what 
the lacrosse defenseman uses to scoop up 
the ball - after he sends a forward into 
the air or onto the ground. As Arch 
galloped back up the stairs, I banged the 
eggs back onto the fridge shelf and 
slammed the door closed.

   "He'll be fine," Tom murmured as he 
hugged me. "After I pick him up at 
practice, we'll make your favorite beef 
stew, ready when you get home from the 
mall. Arch gets plenty of good nutrition. 
Frankly, in the health department, it's 
you I worry about, Miss G."

   "I'm fine."

   "No," my husband countered. "You're 
not. You need to cut back, Goldy. You're 
exhausted."

   "Would you like something to eat?"

   He kissed me again, then stepped back. 
"When I get down to the sheriff's 
department, they'll have doughnuts 
waiting." He smiled. "Just kidding. 
Listen. After I leave Arch off, why don't 
you let me pick up some sandwiches. . . 
for you and Liz?" Liz Fury was the 
assistant I'd hired at Marla's behest. 
Liz had been a godsend. Tom concluded, "I 
can be back in an hour. Interested?"

   I shook my head as unexpected tears 
pricked my eyes. When you endure seven 
years of being belted around by a Jerk, 
kindness comes as a shock. Guess I was 
more tired than I thought.

   "Thanks, but no," I said hastily. "If 
Liz and I can get all our work done, 
we'll grab a bite at the mall. Then - "

   Arch banged back into the room. He was 
now toting the long stick in one hand, 
the second energy drink in the other. 
"Westside Mall?" he interrupted. I 
nodded; his eyes brightened. "Westside 
Music just put the fifteen-hundred-buck 
Epiphone on sale for seven hundred. It's 
the exact guitar I need, Mom, and they 
only have one. And The Gadget Guy is 
having a mega sale, so everything is 
fifty percent - "

   "Stop!" I said, too loudly. At least I 
didn't scream, Seven hundred dollars!

   "Westside Music has one guitar on 
sale, Mom. By tonight it'll be gone."

   I swore I'd check it out, then gave 
each of them a wrapped truffle for a 
midafternoon snack. With an air of being 
put-upon, Arch tucked the truffle into 
his bookbag, pawed through his athletic 
carrier, and announced he was missing his 
Palm pilot and cell phone, and did I know 
where they were.

   I did not. Arch banged back up the 
stairs, and I gave Tom a look. "My son 
has become a materialist."

   "It's the age, Goldy."

   "But where was he yesterday? What if 
he ends up shoplifting like those other 
Elk Park Prep kids?"

   "Goldy, come on. Only one of those 
kids we caught was from Elk Park Prep, 
and he was carrying goods from a pen 
store, a leather boutique, and Victoria's 
Secret." Tom slipped into his jacket. 
"Plus, your pal Barry Dean, whose stores 
buy more advertising than God, has 
installed a new state-of-the-art security 
system at Westside. He's even threatened 
to bar certain kids from the mall."

   I shook my head. I thought of my 
broken cup shards in the trash, and 
shuddered.

   Tom jangled his keys. With shaking 
hands, I picked up the foodstuffs list to 
begin my check-off. Finally, Arch slammed 
back into the kitchen. He slipped a 
handful of electronic accoutrements into 
his backpack, then yanked up the bag in a 
practiced motion. In so doing, his 
untucked shirt revealed the skin of his 
back. I gasped.

   The bottom fourth of Arch's back was 
inked with a tattoo of a lacrosse stick.

   "Mother of God!" I exclaimed.

   "What's the matter?" Tom demanded, 
startled.

   "I. . . he. . ." I croaked. "So that's 
where you were yesterday, at a, at a, 
tattoo. . ." I couldn't finish.

   "Back off, Mom!" Arch yelled.

   "I I - "

   "May I see it, Arch?" Tom interposed 
quietly. Eyeing me furiously, Arch faced 
me and lifted his shirt so Tom could 
inspect his back.

   "Well, well," said Tom. "A tattoo. Had 
any bleeding or swelling?"

   "No." Arch flipped down his shirt, 
tucked it in, and announced he'd 
forgotten one more thing upstairs: his 
anatomy class assignment.

   I sank into a chair. "I'm losing my 
grip," I moaned.

   "Hate to tell you, Miss G., but that's 
what you're supposed to do with an 
almost-fifteen-year-old." He stroked my 
cheek and kissed me again. "Just 
concentrate on the cooking. Julian's 
helping you today?" he asked. "Along with 
Liz?"

   I took two deep, yoga-style breaths. 
Liz Fury was good, but twenty-two-year-
old Julian Teller, our one-time boarder 
and close family friend, was, in my 
opinion, the best young gourmet cook in 
Colorado. "They're both helping," I 
answered. Plus, I added mentally, Julian 
was close to Arch, and might have some 
ideas about dealing with adolescence. 
Maybe Julian had tattoos, too.

   "You're sure you're going to be all 
right, Miss G.?"

   I opened my eyes wide. I wasn't sure 
of anything. "Tom, I'll be fine. Julian's 
leaving Boulder at one, meeting us at the 
mall at two."

   "OK, listen," Arch interjected as he 
traipsed back into the kitchen and deftly 
nabbed a third energy drink. "Could you 
tell Julian I need a chocolate cake with 
vanilla frosting? For my birthday? You'll 
probably be too busy to do anything, and 
Julian always makes me a terrific cake," 
he added.

   "Arch!"

   "One Epiphone on sale, Mom. One."

   Tom winked at me and waved. The back 
door banged behind them. A moment later, 
Tom's engine growled in the driveway. My 
heart ached. Was I a failure as a mother? 
If I bought the expensive guitar, would I 
be succumbing to acquisitiveness? If I 
didn't buy it, would Arch get more 
tattoos?

   Before I could answer these questions, 
however, there was a frenzied knocking at 
the front door. My peephole revealed Liz 
Fury.

   "Where's your husband going this time 
of day? Is everything OK?" Liz demanded.

   I stepped out onto the porch. "He's 
just taking Arch to school. Late start."

   "Oh." Liz, an early-forties single 
mom, was gifted with food and efficient 
at catering. With her tall, slender 
figure, attractive face set off by 
sapphire eyes and chopped silver-blond 
hair, she even looked the part. Or at 
least, she looked the way most people 
visualize an upscale caterer. She didn't 
look chic just at that moment, though. In 
the cold April wind, her hair had all 
blown to one side. Her cheeks and nose 
were red, and she looked less like a hip 
caterer than a silver-haired doll with a 
punk haircut.

   Tom and Arch zoomed away. Liz, 
clutching a bag, hastened past me toward 
the kitchen. Under her coat, it looked as 
if she was wearing dressier-than-usual 
clothes. Hmm. I'd seen Liz talking 
earnestly with Barry Dean while we did 
the lounge measurements. Maybe she was 
trying to impress the most eligible 
bachelor.

   And maybe I was becoming too obsessed 
with other folks' issues. I marched into 
the kitchen.

   "What are we doing first?" Liz asked 
as her eyes swept the room. "Why were Tom 
and Arch in such a hurry?"

   "Ah. . . I don't know." I truly did 
not know what Tom was doing today, but 
I'd finally learned a thing or two as a 
cop's wife, among them: Regarding police 
work, keep your mouth shut. And anyway, 
I'd forgotten to ask what Tom's plans 
were; I'd been sidetracked by Arch's 
tattoo.

   "I got that expensive Burgundy. You're 
right, though, it will make a 
difference." Liz banged bottles onto the 
counter, then hung up her coat and washed 
her hands. I complimented her on her 
outfit - shimmery white silk shirt, 
spotless black silk sweater, and 
wrinkled-silk gray pants - undoubtedly 
remnants of her high-flying days as a 
party planner and caterer for a high-
flying corporation that had gone under. 
When her employer had declared 
bankruptcy, she'd tried to find work with 
other big-spending companies. But the new 
big guns in town had brought their own 
party planners. With no savings, Liz had 
ended up begging for food stamps. If I 
were in her position, I'd chat up single 
guys, too.

   Without thinking, I asked, "Going 
somewhere after we finish tonight?"

   "Well," she replied with a smile as 
she tied her apron over her beautiful 
clothes, "maybe." She lowered velvety 
lashes over her dark blue eyes. "Not that 
I'd ever tell my boss about my social 
life."

   "Sorry," I mumbled.

   A grin flitted across Liz's heart-
shaped mouth as she retrieved a wide 
frying pan and containers of reserved 
beef drippings and clarified butter. I 
packed up the first container of truffles 
while she whisked flour into the melted 
fat, set the heat to low, and pulled out 
the beef stock. As I covered layer after 
layer of chocolate, Liz slowly stirred 
the stock into the roux until it 
thickened. Leaving it to heat, she went 
back to the refrigerator and perused the 
contents.

   "Goldy, what else do we have left to 
do?"

   "Shrimp rolls. You can check the crab 
dip. I've got two pages of printout over 
there. Could you, ah, bring me the 
grilled shrimp?"

   Liz brought out the vat of shrimp, 
then perused the printout. A moment later 
she dove back into the depths of the 
refrigerator.

   She bumped around for a bit, then 
called, "What'd you do, work all night on 
the Stockham lunch?"

   "Just trying to get ahead. We've got 
that party plus Barry's lessee lunch the 
following day."

Sweethearts'Swedish Meatballs in Burgundy 
Sauce

2/3 cup cornflake crumbs
1 teaspoon cornstarch
1 tablespoon dried minced onion
1/8 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1 ¼ teaspoons salt
Freshly ground black pepper
2/3 cup heavy cream
1 egg, well beaten
1 pound lean ground beef
¼ cup olive oil, divided, for sautéing
  the meatballs

Burgundy Sauce (recipe follows)

   Preheat the oven to 300°F. In a large 
bowl, mix the cornflake crumbs, 
cornstarch, onion, nutmeg, salt, and 
pepper. In another bowl, mix together the 
cream and egg. Pour this mixture over the 
crumb mixture and stir gently. Allow this 
mixture to sit until the liquid is 
absorbed.
   Gently mix in the ground beef until 
thoroughly. combined. Using a 1 
tablespoon (or slightly larger) ice-cream 
scoop, measure out the beef mixture into 
36 scoops onto 2 plates covered with wax 
paper. Gently roll the scoops between 
your fingers to form balls. In a large 
frying pan, heat 2 tablespoons oil over 
medium-high heat until the oil shimmers. 
Carefully place the balls into the hot 
oil and sauté, turning once, until the 
outside is browned. (Do not cook the 
meatballs all the way through; they will 
be finished in the oven.) Using tongs, 
place the browned meatballs onto a 
rimmed, buttered baking sheet, or better 
yet, a baking sheet that has been lined 
with a silicone (Sil-Pat) sheet. (Do not 
discard the drippings in the pan.)
   Place the meatballs in the oven while 
you make , the sauce. (If the sauce is to 
be prepared later, bake the meatballs for 
about 10 minutes, or until just cooked 
through and no longer pink. Cool them and 
place them in a container that can be 
covered.)
   After 10 minutes, test the doneness of 
the meatballs by slicing one in half. The 
interior should no longer be pink. Do not 
overbake the meatballs. Remove the 
meatballs from the oven as soon as they 
are done and set them aside until you are 
ready to reheat them in the reserved 
sauce. (Do not heat the meatballs in the 
sauce until you are ready to serve the 
dish. The meatballs are delicate and will 
fall apart if cooked too long in the 
sauce.)

Burgundy Souce:
¼ cup melted fat (strained pan drippings
  plus enough melted unsalted butter to
  make ¼ cup)
¼ cup all-purpose flour
1 ½ teaspoons sugar, or to taste
Freshly ground black pepper
2 cups homemade beef stock or 1 
tablespoon beef bouillon powder dissolved
  in 2 cups hot water
1 cup high-quality Burgundy wine

   Strain the fat from the pan (reserve 
the browned bits) into a glass measuring 
cup. Add melted unsalted butter to make ¼ 
cup.
   Keeping the heat low, return the fat 
to the pan and whisk in the flour. 
Keeping the heat between low and medium-
low, whisk and cook this mixture until it 
bubbles. (This should not take more than 
a couple of minutes.) Whisk in the sugar 
and pepper, then slowly add the stock, 
whisking continuously to avoid lumps. 
Finally, whisk in the wine.
   Allow the mixture to come to a slow 
simmer and cook for about 5 minutes. 
Taste and correct the seasoning. If the 
sauce tastes bitter, add a bit more sugar 
and allow the sauce to simmer another 10 
minutes. If the dish is not to be served 
immediately, cool the sauce and chill, 
covered, until ready to heat and serve.
   Just before serving, lower the 
meatballs into the hot sauce and bring 
the mixture to a simmer. Taste a meatball 
with sauce to be sure the dish is heated 
all the way through. If the dish is to be 
served as an appetizer, provide small 
bowls or dishes and spoons. If the dish 
is to be served as a main course, serve 
over hot egg noodles.
Makes 36 meatballs in sauce

Variation:
   You may use crème fraîche instead of 
heavy cream in the meatball recipe. Crème 
fraîche must be prepared 2 days ahead.

Crème Fraíche:
¼ cup active-culture buttermilk (do not
  use buttermilk powder)
2 cups heavy cream

   Using a glass container, mix the 
buttermilk into the cream, cover with 
plastic wrap, and allow to sit at room 
temperature until the mixture is the 
thickness of commercial sour cream, 
usually about 2 days. It can be 
refrigerated, covered, for up to 3 days. 
Since the recipe only calls for 2/3 cup, 
the rest of the crème fraîche can be used 
for dips and sauces.

Diamond Lovers' Hot Crab Dip

2 shallots, peeled and finely chopped
6 tablespoons (3/4 stick) unsalted
  butter, divided
5 canned artichoke bottoms, drained,
  patted dry, and trimmed to remove any
  hard, rough spots
24 ounces cream cheese, at room
  temperature 
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
1/3 cup crème fraîche (page 31) or
  commercial sour cream
1 cup freshly grated Parmigiano-Reggiano
  cheese 
1 pound pasteurized crab, flaked and
  picked over to remove any stray bits of
  cartilage
2 cups fresh bread crumbs, preferably
  made from homemade bread (brioche is
  best)
12 cup finely chopped fresh parsley Corn
  chips and crackers

   Preheat the oven to 350°F. Butter an 
attractive 2-quart au gratin dish, 
preferably a dark-colored one. Set aside.
   Place the shallots in a miniature food 
processor and blend until juicy, less 
than a minute. Over medium-low heat, melt 
1 tablespoon butter, add the shallots, 
and sauté just until the shallots begin 
to turn golden brown. Remove from the 
heat and set aside.
   Chop the artichoke bottoms into 1/2-
inch dice. Set aside until you are ready 
to assemble the dip.
   In the large bowl of an electric 
mixer, beat the cream cheese until very 
smooth. Add the mustard, crème fraîche, 
and cheese and beat on low speed just 
until combined. Stir in the crab, 
shallots, and artichoke bottoms until 
well combined. Turn the crab mixture into 
the prepared au gratin dish.
   In a medium-sized sauté pan, melt the 
remaining 5 tablespoons butter and stir 
in the bread crumbs. Cook and stir just 
until the butter is absorbed and the 
crumbs are beginning to turn golden. 
Remove from the heat, stir in the chopped 
parsley, and distribute this mixture over 
the top of the crab dip.
   Place the dip in the oven and bake for 
about 30 minutes, until the topping is 
golden brown and a small spoonful of dip 
scooped up from the center tastes very 
hot. Serve immediately with a choice of 
chips and crackers.
Makes 24 or more servings

   "What else are we doing for Shane? 
Calculators from sardines? Whole 
mushrooms in the shape of digital 
cameras?"

   "Just finish the meatballs, would you, 
Liz?" She emerged with the metal 
container that held our meticulously 
rolled and browned mixture of lean ground 
beef, heavy cream, freshly grated nutmeg, 
and other goodies. While she stirred the 
high-priced Burgundy into the meatball 
sauce, arranged fat shrimp, thin noodles, 
fragrant chopped cilantro, and shredded 
carrot, broccolini, and black mushrooms 
into the shrimp rolls. Before we started 
on our last dishes - the crab dip and 
cheese trays - we treated ourselves to 
eight leftover shrimp and the last four 
leftover truffles. It wasn't a meal Elk 
Park Prep would highlight in their 
nutrition class. But so what? We were 
caterers.

   An hour later, we entered the last 
stage of prep: cleaning our pots, pans, 
and tools, going over our checklists, and 
packing up our vehicles. When Liz still 
had her corporate job, her last financial 
gasp had been to buy - on credit - a 
silver Toyota van. It was a great car, 
and roomy, and Liz and I were halfway 
through packing it when a battered green 
Subaru screeched to a halt outside the 
house.

   "What the - " I exclaimed.

   "Oh, darn it," muttered Liz. She shot 
me a baleful glance. "It's my kids."

   A boy of perhaps seventeen, dark-
haired and gangly, jumped out of the 
passenger side while a smartly dressed, 
beautifully bobbed young woman of about 
twenty extracted herself from the driver 
side and slammed her door shut.

   "Mom!" shrieked the girl, whom I took 
to be Kim, Liz's super-bright daughter, 
an honor student at C.V. "I have to have 
the van to get back to Boulder! Or the 
Subaru! You can't let Teddy take a car to 
school today! Come on, Mom!"

   "Kim," Liz began, "I thought you were 
getting a ride - "

   Kim's dark hair bounced pertly as she 
strode up the driveway. "Mom!" she cried 
again. "You know perfectly well I can't 
get all my stuff into a friend's car! Why 
do you always side with Teddy? He's a 
terrible driver, anyway. And he's in 
trouble. You said so yourself. He 
shouldn't be going shopping after school, 
when I need to get back."

   "Kim," Liz tried again, her voice low, 
"please stop shouting in front of Goldy's 
neighbors."

   "Mom!" Teddy pleaded, his shoulders 
slumped, his face screwed into a look of 
anxiety. Teddy, I knew, was something of 
a screwup, although I was not aware of 
the details. "I don't have a ride to 
school today, and I've got stuff to do 
later, and I'm really, really late as it 
is - "

   "Teddy, you're not supposed to - "

   "Please let me have the Subaru," Teddy 
begged, "because I know it needs an oil 
change. Give Kim the van, let me have the 
Subaru until tonight. I'll get the oil 
changed, then pick you up at the mall. 
What time will you be finished? I can 
meet you at the - "

   "Mom!" Kim was livid. "Why are you 
listening to him and not listening to me? 
I need the van! Now!"

   Liz's blue eyes shot me a look of such 
hopelessness that my heart twisted in my 
chest. "Is there any way we can get 
everything into your van?" Liz beseeched 
me.

   "Of course!" I said without 
hesitation. "Besides, I'd love your 
company." She blushed, then asked if she 
and her kids could move the stuff over, 
so I wouldn't be bothered. I took this as 
a signal that she couldn't stand being 
embarrassed another moment. I nodded and 
mumbled that I had work to do inside.

   Poor Liz, I thought, as I packed up 
the last boxes in the kitchen. She'd had 
her kids early, then been deserted by her 
husband. After the corporate job crashed 
and burned, she'd been left without 
resources. I'd kill to get this job with 
you, she'd told me two weeks ago, as her 
long, slender hands had offered me a foil 
cup of her signature Grand Marnier crème 
brûlée. I'd taken only one bite and 
informed her that she was hired! She'd 
managed to balance her schedule, money, 
and offspring problems - until today.

   But we worked things out. Kim took the 
van; Teddy roared away triumphantly in 
the Subaru. An hour later, crisis over, 
Liz and I were on our way.

   My van zipped up Aspen Meadow's Main 
Street and around the curve of the lake, 
where ruffled dark water skirted a 
membrane of ice. April in the high 
country brings freezing temperatures, 
lots of snow, and only an occasional 
glimpse of the warmth to come. Chugging 
toward the interstate, we passed snowy 
meadows pocked with dun-colored grass. 
Stands of white-barked aspen looked as if 
they were wrapped in green mist, the 
first sign of emerging lime-colored 
leaves.

   Driving by Flicker Ridge, I was forced 
to slow by the entries to two new upscale 
housing developments. Trucks, tractors, 
and front-end loaders rumbled across 
denuded meadows, where a sign now 
screamed that there were ONLY 3 SITES 
LEFT!, next to a hand painted offer, 
Topsoil $70/load, which lay beside a 
large, beautifully lettered sign 
announcing the presence of Ace Custom 
Construction. Trucks labeled Ace and We 
Got Dirt hauled loads of soil in and out 
of a fenced-off area. Melting snow still 
chilled the air, but the building of the 
new crop of trophy homes, each set on a 
mere quarter of an acre, was clearly well 
under way. I turned up the van's heat.

   As we descended to the Mile High City, 
the air turned soft and warm. At my 
request, Liz cracked a window. Our winter 
in Aspen Meadow began in October and 
ended in May, two months longer than 
Denver and environs. By the time we 
arrived at the turnoff for Westside Mall, 
forty miles east of home, we had emerged 
into a gentle spring.

   Not that arriving at the shopping 
center gave you a prospect of flowers, 
shrubs, or leafy trees. If anything, the 
mall's grand new stone entrance, flanked 
with sloping hillocks of dirt, gave the 
place the look of a military outpost. 
Barry had told me the mall landscaping 
had been postponed because of the 
construction delays.

   As I slowed to make the turn onto 
Doughnut Drive, the road that encircled 
the mall, I remembered something else 
Barry had told me: We're giving shoppers 
entertainment and discounts these days, 
to make up for the mess. Tonight's Red 
Tag Shoe Sale at Prince & Grogan was the 
discount magnet. The catered jewelry-
leasing party was the entertainment. The 
mess was just the mess.

   I slowed the van and glanced in the 
direction of the construction, where a 
line of workers were putting in a winding 
sidewalk that would soon be dotted with 
inviting benches, restaurants, boutiques, 
and coffee kiosks. All this, Barry had 
told me, was more entertainment. Shoppers 
want picturesque spots to sit, watch the 
folks go by, and eat food samples, he'd 
said. Shoppers don't live in a storybook 
village. But they want to pretend they 
do.

   And, he'd added, they were under 
severe pressure from the mall owner, 
Pennybaker International, to get the new 
village done. Malls Are Getting Mauled 
was the message from industry insiders. 
Suburban folks with money in their 
pockets were tired of concrete parking 
lots leading to blank walls enclosing 
identical sets of stores. They wanted to 
see and be seen as they strolled past 
trees, bushes, and sculptures. They 
wanted to go to the bank, the dry 
cleaner, and the bookstore, and then have 
lunch at an Italian restaurant 
overlooking a fountain. This was exactly 
what all the mall owners and execs, 
including Barry, were trying to offer. 
And at some point, all those shoppers 
would also need to purchase dresses, 
cosmetics, pots, pans, and shoes, which 
they could do inside the mall itself, a 
mere fifty steps away. The best way to 
promote Westside, Barry had told me, was 
to tack a fairy-tale village onto its 
back end.

   At least Barry wasn't bringing in Snow 
White and the Dwarfs, I reflected, as my 
van chugged along Doughnut Drive. The new 
road was perfectly named. A twelve-foot-
high berm of unlandscaped soil circled 
the outer perimeter. At the eight-foot 
chain-link fence surrounding the 
construction area, I slowed again, then 
stopped at the gate. Barry was not there 
to meet us. Liz gave me a questioning 
look.

   Beyond the fence, acres of flattened 
dirt - what would eventually become the 
mall's new parking lot - sloped down to 
the roped-off area. There, a worker 
wearing a bright orange hard hat chugged 
around in a front-end loader, moving 
rocks from one enormous pile to another. 
The rest of the crew, clad in yellow hard 
hats, were clustered next to a hot dog 
vendor by the construction company 
trailer.

   My eyes swept left and I barely 
escaped cursing aloud. The restyled back 
entrance to the mall - the one that led 
up to the Elite Shoppers' Lounge - was 
surrounded by a lake of muddy drainage 
water. At the edge of this brown pond, an 
imposing line of enormous dump trucks 
obscured any view to that rear entry. 
Worse, the water came up to the trucks' 
wheel wells. How were we supposed to 
transport boxes into the mall? By boat?

   As if he'd heard my worries, the man 
driving the loader halted abruptly and 
hopped onto the rocks. This had to be 
Victor Wilson, the excavator Barry had 
mentioned, who'd been promoted recently 
to be the new construction manager. 
Victor was short and chunky, with a 
reddish brown ponytail sticking out from 
his orange hard hat. He shouted in the 
direction of the crew, who responded by 
tossing their trash and slowly moving 
back to the equipment on the sidewalk. I 
was impressed. After all the delays, it 
looked as if Victor was really cracking 
the whip.

   "How are we going to unpack?" Liz 
asked me. "Where's Barry? Where's 
Julian?"

   I scanned the drainage lake and spied 
a narrow wooden walkway spanning the 
water, curving around the row of trucks. 
Maybe we wouldn't have to don hip boots, 
after all.

   I pointed. "See that plankway in front 
of the trucks? If you can open the gate 
to the construction area, I'll drive us 
as close as possible. With any luck, 
Julian will see the van."

   "Why did Barry even say he'd meet us 
at the gate?" Liz asked. "That's not 
normal, is it? For a mall manager to help 
the catering team?"

   "He's an old friend." I thought again 
of the flirtatious way she and Barry had 
seemed to be acting when we'd done our 
measuring. Then again, I'd learned in 
college that Barry was a seductive kind 
of guy. "Anyway, Liz," I added 
mischievously, "maybe Barry wanted to see 
you."

   "Did Barry... ?" Flustered, she ran 
her fingers through her silver-blond 
hair. "Did he mention my name? The fact 
that I was. . . helping you?"

   "Liz, stop worrying. Everything will 
be fine. Just get the gate, OK?"

   She hopped out, swung open the 
construction gate, and waved me through. 
Once the gate was shut and she was back 
inside, we bumped over deep ruts to get 
as close as possible to the big puddle. 
We ended up parking fifty yards from the 
wooden walkway. I still couldn't get a 
good view of the mall's rear entrance. 
Were the trucks parked flush against the 
shopping center wall? Hopefully, some 
kind of dike had been erected behind 
them, providing walking space that led to 
the mall's entrance.

   If Julian and Barry didn't show up to 
help, and Liz and I had to skirt the 
truck-and-water mess to get to the 
lounge, we were going to have a devil of 
a time. I mentally calculated an hour and 
a half to haul everything in, another 
ninety minutes to set up and decorate the 
tables, another forty-five to do the 
last-minute prep on the food and set out 
the platters. Since my watch now said two 
o'clock, that schedule would put us right 
up against six o'clock-party time.

   Liz and I heaved up the first boxes. 
We decided to trek down around the ruts 
to a foot-wide dirt path that seemed to 
run along the edge of the lake. The crow 
may fly as he may, but a smooth, longer 
way to the wooden plankway had to be 
better than negotiating hard waves of 
dirt. As we trod carefully on the springy 
plank boards, I spotted a foot-high 
wooden wall behind the trucks. So there 

was a seawall, thank goodness. Beyond it, 
a cement sidewalk looked dry enough for 
us to make it to the just-completed glass 
doors of the entrance. Despite the fact 
that I was lugging two boxes, I felt 
relief. Then Liz let out a little gasp.

   Barry Dean had pushed through the 
glass doors and was striding along the 
sidewalk. Liz and I stepped off the end 
of the plankway spanning the drainage 
lake and started up the sidewalk toward 
him. Clad in a bright green sport shirt, 
khaki pants, and loafers, Barry 
acknowledged us with a hearty wave. 
Tripping along behind him was a young 
woman wearing a black halter top, white 
short-shorts, and chartreuse-green 
platform sandals. The woman was slender-
hipped and big-busted. About thirty 
platinum ponytails stuck out from her 
head. She looked like a blond plant that 
had sprouted.

   The young woman laid her hand on 
Barry's arm to slow him. When he turned 
to face her, she did a little wiggle. 
Showing off her outfit? Demonstrating how 
all the ponytails could jiggle at once? I 
groaned, shifted my load, and turned to 
check on Liz. She had stopped dead in her 
tracks. Luckily, she recovered quickly 
enough to grab her boxes before they 
fell.

   Plenty of fish in the sea, I wanted to 
tell her.

   "Honestly," Liz murmured. She 
rebalanced her cargo, moved forward, and 
made her tone light. "That man would hit 
on my daughter."

   Enthusiastic honking kept me from 
having to reply. From between the trucks, 

I could see a white Range Rover rocketing 
over the dirt ruts: Julian. He swung in 
next to my van, hopped out with a bag in 
his hands, and hightailed it toward the 
plankway. Meanwhile, Barry and the blond 
bombshell conversed in low tones.

   "Hiya," Julian said, once he'd caught 
up to us. He put down the bag and 
expertly pulled off one of the boxes I 
was carrying. He'd cut his dark hair 
quite close to the scalp. (Not bicked, I 
wanted to tell Arch.) Julian was also 
clean-shaven and as handsome as ever. 
Plus, he was compact and muscled, dressed 
in balloon olive pants and a black T-
shirt, and as usual, had come to work. 
Seeing Liz and her load, he immediately 
rejuggled my box so he could take one of 
hers. The kid was great: mature, 
bighearted, talented, and kind. I thought 
of Arch with a pang.

   Julian swung the two boxes to one side 
as if they were nothing. "Hey, Goldy, I 
brought you one of those hot lattes made 
with cream from The Westside Buzz. You 
know, that drive-through place? I figured 
you'd be pretty tired by now, and since 
you gave up coffee, well - " He blushed 
and turned to Liz. "Sorry. We just met 
that once. I'm Julian Teller. Actually, I 
brought two lattes. One's for you, Liz."

   "Thanks, Julian, but no," Liz told 
him. "You have it. And it's good to see 
you again, too."

   "I'm so bad!" Julian enthused, as he 
proffered me the bag. "I've already had 
two of those things, and each Buzz latte 
has four shots. I'm pretty wired, I can 
tell you that."

   "We can always use your energy," Liz 
said, warming to him with a smile. Julian 
had that effect on people.

   "Is that the Barry guy?" Julian asked. 
He lifted his chin at Barry and the 
blonde. "Down there?"

   Barry Dean tilted his head toward the 
blonde, roared with laughter, then 
sauntered toward us. The young woman 
teetered along behind him.

   "Hey!" Barry called. His grin flashed 
as he winked at me and opened his arms in 
greeting. "Speak of the devil!"

   "I certainly hope not," Julian 

muttered.

   I introduced Julian to Barry, who in 
turn presented us to his "dear friend," 
Pam Disharoon.

   Pam Disharoon? I thought. Was that a 
combination of dish and macaroon? I'm a 
cute dish, my hair’s a macaroon.

   "I'm Liz," my new assistant politely 
announced to Pam. But Barry Dean could 
have introduced her, couldn't he? 
Instead, he squinted at Liz and pressed 
his lips together.

   "Hello, catering team!" Pam's tone was 
bright. She lifted her pointed chin, 
sending the ponytails a-wiggle. "I'm sure 
you'll make great chow for our jewelry 
event!"

   Liz Fury, master of cuttlefish pasta, 
flourless chocolate cake, and salade 
composée, turned green around the gills. 
Chow, indeed.

   "Pam is the star seller in Prince and 
Grogan's lingerie department," Barry 
announced with pride. "She's the top 
saleswoman at the mall."

   Liz made her voice falsely cheerful as 
she reshifted her box. "Goldy? Julian? 
I'm taking this up. See you all in the 
lounge." And before I could say anything, 
she took off.

   "Well," said Pam into the awkward 
silence that followed. She gave Julian 
the once-over. In a coy, seductive tone, 
she addressed him: "So you're a caterer?"

   "Pam," said Barry, "these people are 
here to work - "

   "Caterer's assistant," said Julian, 
not fooled by Pam's attempt to flirt. 
"Goldy, give me your other box. I'll take 
this load up and come right back."

   Pam took a sashaying two-step toward 
Julian, extended her red-nailed hands, 
and cupped his cheeks and chin. "Want 
some help?"

   The well-coordinated Julian slid away 
from her. "I'll meet you at your van, 
boss," he told me cheerfully, and headed 
toward the doors.

   I hastened back to my van, eager to 
retrieve the refrigerator-bound supplies. 
Through the windshield, I could see Barry 
and Pam walking across the plankway over 
the water. Without warning, Barry whirled 
and held up his index finger, as if to 
correct her. Suddenly, their conversation 
didn't look friendly. Guess that meant 
Barry wasn't going to help with the 
boxes, after all. Thank God for Julian - 
although maybe Barry Dean felt 
differently.

   By the time I'd unloaded the shrimp-
roll and crab-dip boxes from the van, 
Julian had returned from the mall. "Liz 
is guarding the food in the lounge. The 
jewelry people are already there."

   I nodded. On the list of catering 
rules you shouldn't break was Never leave 
food where it can be swiped. Sadly, half 
a dozen of my beef tenderloins had 
disappeared before I'd learned this.

   "Oh," Julian went on, "and Barry and 
what's-her-name are having a lovers' 
spat."

   "Let's avoid them." Hoisting our 
loads, Julian and I avoided the ruts and 
hurried down the dirt path that led to 
the plankway. Ahead of us, Pam was 
stomping away from Barry. Her barely 
covered rump bounced as she tried to trot 
in the silly sandals. The plankway 
jiggled with each of her steps. The 
construction workers stopped and gaped. 
So did Barry Dean. Then he turned and 
again marched toward us. He looked as If 
he'd swallowed a frog.

   "Goldy," he said once he'd met up with 
us on the dirt path, "could you and I 
have a talk?" Barry's endearingly 
handsome face and brown eyes, changed so 
little from our time together at C.U., 
beseeched me. "The mall has been turned 
upside down lately - "

   "Can we just talk upstairs?" I 
suggested, panting. "I really need to get 
this food inside."

   "I'd rather visit now," Barry insisted 
firmly, "if you don't mind. I'll take one 
of those boxes." Julian, who was now 
halfway across the plankway, turned back 
and lifted his eyebrows. Want me to 
rescue you from that guy? Probably 
sensing my reluctance, Barry implored, 
"Goldy, please. This is important - "

   He was interrupted by the sound of a 
revving engine. It was loud, then very 
loud, like an airplane being warmed up. A 
short distance away, one of the dump 
trucks rolled away from the neat line of 
vehicles. The sun winked off the 
windshield as the truck plowed through 
the water. I couldn't see the driver.

   "Oh, no, I knew it!" Barry cried. 
"No!"

   "What?" I called to him. He knew a 
truck was going to start up? "Barry, 
what's the matter?" But he'd dropped his 
box and started running toward the 
construction gate. Where was he going? 
Was he going to try to outrun the truck?

   My heart plunged. The truck roared and 
spewed exhaust. I glanced at Julian. The 
truck was headed right toward him.

   "Julian!" I screamed. "Look out!"

   Julian reared back and dropped his 
load. He sprang away from the path of the 
vehicle, lost his balance, and splashed 
face forward into the muddy water. The 
truck charged past him. I watched in 
horror until Julian's mud-drenched head, 
followed by his body, emerged from the 
water. I looked for Barry. He had stopped 
running and seemed frozen, watching 
Julian slosh through the puddle.

   The truck was barreling toward us. 
Julian, sopping wet and shouting, was 
running raggedly along behind it.

   I dropped my box, raced toward Barry, 
and grabbed his shirt. As I yanked him 
fiercely sideways, the huge, noisy truck 
swerved toward us.

   "Barry, run with me, dammit!" I 
hollered. My old friend looked at me, his 
face stricken. He tried to hurry, but 
tangled his feet and stumbled to his 
knees. The truck was thirty feet away and 
closing. With all my strength, I wrenched 
Barry's arm and body upward. His legs 
moved spastically as I pulled him over 
row after row of ruts. Finally, I tripped 
on one of the hard ridges and we were 
both airborne. We hit the dirt hard.

   A foot down in a wide ditch, I could 
hear but not see the bellowing truck. It, 
too, seemed to be plowing up and down the 
ridges. I tugged on Barry, who was 
groaning as he tried to scoot along 
beside me. Hopefully, we were also headed 
away from the path the truck had been 
taking. . . a path straight at us. If I 
could not see the truck driver, I 
reasoned, then hopefully, he could not 
see Barry or me. The way it had been 
bearing down on us, I did not think that 
enormous dump truck was just a runaway 
vehicle.

   The truck noise rose to deafening 
proportions. When our ditch narrowed, 
Barry and I stopped crawling. I eased up 
to have a peek. Fifteen feet from us, 
exactly where we had been when we hit the 
dirt, the truck vaulted the ditch where 
we now lay panting. All I could see of 
the driver was the shadowy reflection of 
a face behind a mud-splattered window.

   Panting, Barry and I rose up on our 
elbows. I didn't think the truck driver 
had actually seen us. Once past the ruts, 
the truck picked up speed. It crashed 
through the construction fence with a 
fearsome clanking of metal. Then it 
hurtled across Doughnut Drive. With a 
deafening boom, it slammed into the 
embankment. The berm exploded. Dirt 
erupted over the truck. Clouds of dust 
mushroomed upward as an avalanche of soil 
poured onto the road. A person wearing a 
baseball cap and baggy overalls jumped 
out of the cab, clambered clumsily over 
the embankment, then disappeared.

   What was that about?

Beside me, Barry gasped and cursed. "I 
knew this would happen!" He was covered 
with mud. "I just knew it!"

-2-
   I coughed, spit out grit, and coughed 
again. Then I inhaled dust, coughed, and 
inhaled some more. I had the keen sense 
of having lost moments, maybe even hours 
- as if there'd been a period of 
blackness of indeterminate length. Maybe 
I had passed out.

   I eased back onto the dirt and tried 
to clear the mental fog. My body lay 
crumpled between two dirt ridges. A 
severe aching sensation swept from my 
shoulders to my legs, slowly at first, 
then with more depth and speed. I groaned 
and elbowed up again to a half-sitting 
position. I gazed vacantly at the nearly 
lethal path the truck had taken. What had 
that been about? I had no idea.

   Doing my best to ignore the pain, I 
took stock of myself. Not only were my 
legs, arms, and face filthy, my caterer's 
outfit was streaked beyond recognition. 
The remains of several shrimp rolls clung 
to my jacket. Looking around, I realized 
that the truck had squashed my box and 
sent the contents flying.

   How much food had been lost? Would we 
be able to do the, event?

   Why had Barry yelled I knew it?

   I brushed off my formerly white, 
formerly crisp caterer's jacket.

   Shimmering dust rose from the jacket 
as food strands showered the dirt. I 
sneezed violently.

   Two yards away, Barry rubbed his face 
and hacked for breath. He had landed in a 
deep puddle, and his once-khaki pants 
were now the color of café au lait. His 
formerly green shirt clung to his torso 
like a mossy towel. Julian, his wet 
clothes stuck to his body, trotted toward 
us. He was shouting again, this time at 
the construction crew, something along 
the lines of getting their asses up here 
so they could help us.

   Barry looked at me and blinked, then 
blinked again. He slid sideways in the 
puddle and reached in my direction.

   "Goldy! Did you see the driver?"

   "No. Whoever it was ran away." I 
didn't state the obvious: that whoever 
the driver was, he'd seemed intent on 
mowing us down.

   "Do you know who it was?" I tried but 
didn't succeed in keeping the accusatory 
tone from my voice.

   Barry shook his head and turned away 
from me. Why was his muttered "No" so 
unconvincing?

   I studied the dump truck wedged in the 
embankment. Along Doughnut Drive, lines 
of cars had stopped. Honking and yelling 
rose above the throngs of curious drivers 
who'd left their vehicles and were 
hustling rapidly along the road. Why 
else? They were trying to get a better 
look at the accident.

   We needed state patrol and the 
sheriff's department, I decided, and 
quick. With any luck, one of those 
drivers was using a cell phone to call 
for help right now.

   And speaking of cell phones. . . I 
usually kept mine in my apron pocket. But 
I hadn't yet put on my apron, so I didn't 
have it. I sighed.

   I was having a great day. Barry was 
staring at the errant truck. There was 
blood on his forehead. Julian's words 
were finally discernible: Are you all 
right? I yelled back that we were fine. 
How are you doing? I wanted to know. 
Julian hollered that he was fine, then 
raced down to the construction area and 
called to more workers. Oh, to be young 
and able to run around in wet clothes.

   I hauled myself to my feet, then 
offered a hand to Barry, still stuck in 
the puddle. He groaned and splattered mud 
as he righted himself. His hands were 
icy, his face pale. Once free of the 
ditch water he shivered, grasped the back 
of his left thigh, and cried out in pain.

   Victor Wilson, still wearing his 
orange hat, raced up the parking lot. 
Five workers jogged along behind him. The 
crew did not appear to be paying much 
attention to Victor's bellowed orders, 
commands that were liberally sprinkled 
with curses. With his red ponytail 
flapping, Victor swerved away from Barry 
and me and toward the truck, but not 
before I'd squinted at the boldly printed 
words on his sweatshirt. We Got Dirt. No 
kidding, I thought. Lots and lots of 
dirt.

   Barry hobbled up beside me and we both 
spoke at once. What happened, Who could 
have done such a thing, Are you badly 
hurt, Do you have a cell phone? Without 
waiting for my reply, Barry wiped the 
trickle of blood from his scraped 
forehead and gazed at Victor, who was now 
climbing into the truck.

   "No, no!" I yelled. "You shouldn't be 
doing that!" Ten minutes ago, the crazed 
driver of that vehicle had tried to kill 
us. Or at least it sure had seemed that 
way. Nobody should be touching anything 
until the cops arrived.

   Disregarding my protest, Victor tried 
to start the truck anyway. The engine 
groaned, clicked, and refused to turn 
over. With another cascade of curses, he 
finally got the engine going. The 
behemoth truck revved and erupted into an 
insistent beep beep beep as it growled 
back from the embankment and swerved to 
miss the mountains of displaced berm 
dirt. The gaggle of spectators standing 
on Doughnut Drive moved aside en masse.

   Julian, still sopping, sprinted over 
to us. He assessed me, then Barry, and 
asked if we needed to go to the hospital. 
We both said no. Just call the cops, I 
told him. Julian replied that he was 
calling the cops and an ambulance to have 
us looked at.

   "No!" screamed Barry. "No cops! 
They'll drive away shoppers." He looked 
at me and swallowed. "Important saying in 
our business, Goldy. Nothing clears a 
mall like a security threat. We simply 
cannot afford to lose shoppers."

   "Look, Barry." I raised my voice to 
match his. "More shoppers would avoid 
this place if somebody actually had been 
killed a few moments ago."

   Barry groaned as he watched the line 

of cars along Doughnut Drive grow. The 
honking and shouting intensified.

   Julian tersely ordered us to stay put. 
He was going to the Rover for some 
supplies. When I asked if he'd been able 
to make out who was driving the truck - 
man, woman, race, build - he shook his 
head.

   The first thing he'd seen was the 
truck's backside as it catapulted out of 
the muddy lake and careened toward us.

   When Julian roared up in the Rover a 
few minutes later, he had already changed 
into a spare sweatshirt and pants. He 
leaped out and retrieved a battered 
first-aid kit, a roll of paper towels, 
and his own cell phone. I noted the 
smooth, peculiar-to-Julian ability to do 
two things at once with complete calm. He 
punched in 911, cradled the phone between 
his ear and shoulder, and pumped 
disinfectant onto his hands. Then he 
instructed Barry - in the low, soothing 
voice Julian always assumed in a crisis - 
to lie down. He had to get off his 
injured leg, Julian explained.

   Barry protested. He'd be just fine if 
he could get into some clean clothes and 
make a few calls. "And you, Goldy," Barry 
said, his scraped face wracked with pain. 
"I'm hoping you can just go inside and 
get going. The mall really, really needs 
to have this event go off smoothly."

   "Mr. Dean, please." Julian spoke in a 
low voice. "You'll be much better off if 
you just let me help you. For a few 
minutes. Come on."

   Barry's insistence that we all needed 
to get the hell out of here subsided. 
Groaning, the mall manager lay down as 
bidden.

   Julian smoothed disinfectant onto 
Barry's face and arms, wiped away blood 
and muck with clean towels, and gently 
touched Barry's injured thigh. All the 
while, he murmured into his cell phone, 
telling the emergency operator what he'd 
seen happen. When Julian told the 
operator where in Westside Mall's parking 
lot we were, Barry abruptly wrenched away 
from my assistant's ministering hands. He 
struggled to a standing position, 
snarling that he didn't want any help 
from the cops, he just needed to get back 
to his office.

   What was it with Barry Dean? First he 
wanted to talk to me privately and 
urgently. Then, after we'd nearly been 
run down by a truck, he'd submitted 
reluctantly to Julian's care, and told me 
to go inside and work on the event. Now 
he was back to yelping that he needed to 
get back to work.

   While Julian walked after the hobbling 
Barry, trying to convince him not to 
leave, that he needed to be seen by a 
medic, I took stock of my own injuries. 
I'd had the misfortune to land on my 
kneecaps, which burned when I whisked off 
the tiny stones that had embedded 
themselves there. Blood spurted through a 
network of dirty scratches. My support 
hose, of course, were ripped and filthy. 
Other than my knees, I seemed to have 
emerged with some arm pain that would no 
doubt turn into a disgusting bruise. 
Still, no matter what the intentions of 
the truck driver, I had survived.

   So now, I thought as I continued to 
massage my kneecaps, I only had to clean 
up, change outfits, figure out how much 
food we'd lost, and get on with the 
event. I knew the party would take place; 
Barry was determined. Thank God I had 
learned to keep an emergency pack of 
catering clothes in my van. I tentatively 
put one foot in front of the other, 
immediately registered acute pain in my 
back and hips, and sternly ordered myself 
to block it out. I had work to do.

   Apparently Barry had again changed his 
mind about rushing to his office. He 
limped back to my side. Julian spoke 
earnestly into his cell phone. No, no 
ambulance after all, the injuries were 
slight. Police, yes. Yes, he went on, the 
attack had looked intentional, please 
send both state patrol and the sheriffs 
department. Yes, he would wait for them 
to arrive.

   Barry's skin was ashen. He squinted, 
clearly miserable.

   I asked, "You still want to talk? You 
want to tell me how you knew that was 
going to happen?"

   Once again I got the beseeching brown 
eyes. "I do, Goldy." His voice cracked. 
"Just not right now." He rummaged in his 
pocket and held out a small keychain. "I 
left the lounge kitchen open for you, but 
you might want to lock it behind you, to 
protect the food while you're setting up, 
the way you said you needed to."

   I frowned, but took the key. "Could 
we. . . Goldy, you're an old friend of 
mine." His mouth twisted in a half-smile. 
Were those tears in his eyes? "Could we 
have our little chat later at the party? 
I have some things I absolutely have to 
do right now."

   "Not a good idea, Barry. Come on. At 
least tell me how you knew that truck was 
aiming for us."

   He blushed. "I didn't say that." I 
glared at him. Barry shook his head. "I 
really don't know who the driver was. I 
thought I did, but. . . Look, I really 
need to go." He started limping down to 
the mall.

   "Barry!" I yelled sternly. "You can't 
leave before the cops get here!"

   Barry stopped moving. His eyes slid to 
the offending truck, now moving slowly 
back toward the construction site. The 
vehicle's yellow auxiliary lights blinked 
as it lumbered downward. Back on Doughnut 
Drive, the crew waved traffic around the 
hills of dirt.

   "Hey, old coffee buddy, I have a job 
to do." His voice had become testy. "That 
mess and the traffic jam need to be 
cleaned up before the Elite Shoppers 
arrive. The only thing I have to do is to 
make sure the shoppers can enter freely. 
That's how the mall makes money, 
remember?" I shook my head. He put his 
hands into his wet pockets and made his 
tone charming. "I'll talk to the cops, 
don't fret. I'll see you up at the 
lounge. Say, half an hour? Forty-five 
minutes, at the latest." He managed a 
wink before turning away. Good old Barry.

   "But Barry - " I protested. He moved 
forward, determined. After a moment he 
yelled over his shoulder, "Mall security 
will investigate this incident! They'll 
be my first call." He gave me a 
backhanded wave. "The shoppers' lounge, 
Goldy. Thirty minutes." He staggered 
away, step, hobble, step, hobble, step, 
hobble. Captain Ahab, managing a mall.

   I shivered and clasped my arms around 
my ruined jacket. What was going on? It 
was clear I wasn't going to find out 
standing in the parking lot. Would the 
cops need me, if they already had Julian? 
Trying to ignore the pain, I walked over 
to him. Julian was closing his cell phone 
and shaking his head.

   "Look, Julian, thanks for your help. 
I. . . need to get back to work. Barry's 
expecting the event to go off on time, 
I'm sorry to say."

   Julian grinned ruefully. "I'll make 
your excuses to the cops, don't worry. 
But I swore on my mother's Bible that I'd 
stay here until state patrol and the 
sheriffs department arrive. One handles 
traffic accidents, the other. . . Oh, 
hey, we got company."

   Victor Wilson was hustling toward us. 
He carried another first-aid box and a 
wrapped packet that I recognized as my 
emergency apparel kit. His wide, dirty 
face was crinkled with concern. Forty 
yards behind him was Liz Fury. Had she 
been setting up in the lounge all this 
time? I checked my watch. Incredibly, 
only twenty minutes or so had passed 
since the truck had begun its killer 
course toward us.

   "Are you all right?" Victor demanded. 
"Your assistant down there gave me this 
to bring you." He moved his load into one 
hand and offered me his free arm. It was 
sunburned, rippling with muscles, and 
streaked with mud. "Come on, lean on my 
arm. So you're the caterer? Man, I am 
just so sorry that happened to you. Is 
everyone all right?"

   "Barry Dean isn't," I muttered.

   "Yeah, well, I figured that." When 
Victor talked, it came out as a wheeze. 
"Look, I am really sorry. I have no idea 
what happened. Some nut tried to steal a 
truck, probably. It happens. Let me walk 
you to the back entrance. There's a 
ladies' room right inside."

   Still gripping his arm, I hesitated. 
Liz was telling Julian that she'd heard 
the crash and the yelling, so she'd 
quickly left the lounge. Some women in 
the mall told her about the truck. What 
had happened? As Julian filled her in, 
sirens announced the approach of law 
enforcement.

   Victor guided me gently back to my 
van, where I gave Liz the key to the 
lounge kitchen, which had been unlocked 
when she arrived. She would double-time 
it, she promised me, transporting the 
rest of our equipment and supplies. She 
would also figure out how much we'd lost, 
and see how we could fill in with 
emergency back-ups of cheese, vegetables, 
crackers, and breadsticks. Victor 
insisted on calling two of his workers 
over to help with toting the remaining 
food boxes. I gingerly took my clothing 
packet as Victor and his crew accompanied 
me to the mall entrance. Three screaming, 
flashing prowlers - one state patrol, two 
sheriff's department - roared up Doughnut 
Drive. Julian waved. The cop cars 
careened in his direction.

   Victor deposited me at the ladies' 
room door and told me to go slow, I 
didn't look too great. He and the crew 
would make as many trips to the kitchen 
as they needed to so that we'd have our 
supplies. It was the least he could do, 
he said. Shoppers stopped to look at the 
hard-hatted construction workers with 
their raggedy paint-covered clothes. 
Victor gave the shoppers a defiant look. 
His crew stared at the floor. I thanked 
them all.

   It took me almost fifteen minutes to 
strip off my ruined uniform, splash 
myself with water and soap, then more 
water. I wiped down with enough paper 
towels to fill an entire wastebasket. I 
downed half a dozen ibuprofen packed with 
my emergency clothing, wriggled into my 
clean outfit, then walked out into the 
bright light of Westside's marble-paneled 
hall. I immediately smacked into Liz, who 
was coming in from the van. She reeled 
back, but somehow managed to keep her 
grip on a wrapped vat of meatballs.

   "How're we doing?" I asked grimly.

   "Great. That construction guy and his 
crew brought up everything but the 
meatballs. I've hardly had to leave the 
kitchen at all. This is the last load. 
The van's locked."

   "Wonderful. I'll have to bring Victor 
some cookies. Maybe later in the week."

   As we made our way up the stairs to 
the lounge, Liz gnawed the inside of her 
cheek, as if she were pondering 
something.

   "How old is Julian?" she asked 
abruptly.

   "Twenty-two. Why?"

   "Oh, nothing, just wondering," she 
replied. She was avoiding my eyes. 
"Actually, I'd just like Julian to. . . 
talk to Teddy. If that's OK."

   Was it OK for Julian to talk to her 
son Teddy? At this point in time, before 
an event and minutes after nearly getting 
squashed by a three-ton truck, who cared? 
I felt suddenly overwhelmed. Julian could 
talk to whomever he wanted. So could Liz. 
So could the cops. So could Barry. As 
they say, whatever.

   Truck attack or no truck attack, I had 
a party to cater. 

-4-
   The high-ceilinged shoppers' lounge 
bustled with activity. The walls and 
ceiling sparkled with decorations. 
Jewelry salespeople (uniformly dressed in 
trim navy outfits, with keychains 
dangling from their wrists) hurried to 
and fro; portly security guys (straining 
the buttons of mustard-gold suits) paced, 
asked each other questions, and paced 
some more. A pair of tuxedo-clad 
bartenders clanked wine bottles onto a 
long table. In the far corner, a gaggle 
of long-haired, black-clad young men set 
up instruments. Ah, the band. Barry had 
told me what the first tune would be: 
"Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend."

   I remembered that Barry had also 
informed me he'd spent a small fortune 
decorating this new lounge, which didn't 
even count the temporary decorations for 
the cocktail party. Even though I'd 
visited the lounge before, I was still 
impressed. Oriental-patterned wall-to-
wall carpeting complemented creamy beige 
silk wallpaper and brass wall sconces. 
Floor-to-ceiling west-facing windows rose 
at the far end of the room. Those 
expanses of glass framed a breathtaking 
view of the mountains. The furniture had 
all been moved out to make way for the 
display cases and buffet tables.

   The cocktail decorations were equally 
striking. The ceiling and walls glittered 
with strings of festive lights the color 
and shape of Easter eggs: sparkling 
lilac, brilliant green, bright pink. Lush 
flower arrangements blossomed out of 
strategically placed shopping bags. Scent 
was being pumped in from somewhere. The 
place had a magical air.

   When Liz and I had come to do our 
table measurements, Barry had proudly 
pointed out that the lounge had been 
wired for surveillance, at the insistence 
of Pennybaker International. Placed 
overhead were innocent-looking mirrored 
globes, the kind that hide nests of 
cameras that a fellow in some far-off 
security room can focus on individual 
shoppers or suspicious-acting worker-
bees. A moment of staring, as if at a 
visual puzzle, helped me make out the 
second set of cameras, which were wall-
mounted. The cameras had been painted a 
creamy beige to match the wallpaper. Very 
clever.

   Barry was nowhere in sight. I put down 
my box and hustled around the room to 
check the distances between the jewelry 
cases and buffet tables. As we'd planned, 
the buffet tables had been set up in a 
line to bisect the room lengthwise. They 
were topped with creamy beige satin 
tablecloths to match the walls. The shiny 
material billowed to the floor, like the 
skirts of ballgowns.

   A stage had been set up in front of 
the picture windows. From there, Barry 
would give his sales pitch. Next to me, a 
glass case displayed an intricately 
constructed model of the finished mall, 
including the storybook-village boutiques 
and bistros. Minuscule shoppers were 
ranged along the tiny sidewalks. 
Stretching in front of the other two 
walls were the display cases, shiny 
ziggurats bursting with jewels. Just 
above the cases, yet more strings of 
tiny, suspended spotlights made the 
jewelry sparkle like firecrackers.

   Nobody came rushing up to me, so I 
assumed that news of the truck debacle 
had not yet become public. I hightailed 
it toward the tiny kitchen tucked behind 
the lounge's south wall.

   The only box we'd lost was the one 
with the shrimp rolls, Liz had 
determined. The rest of the boxes were 
neatly stacked on the floors and 
counters. I went through one box until I 
found the buffet design, then hustled 
back out to the long table. I debated 
about calling Tom. Uh, sweetheart? I just 
avoided being squashed by a dump truck. . 
. .

   I punched in his office number and 
reached his voice mail. I left a hasty 
message about the "accident," then told 
him that state patrol and the sheriff's 
department were on site, so he didn't 
need to worry.

   Time to focus on the task at hand. I 
studied my layout design, placed the 
dishes on the buffet, then hurried back 
to the kitchen. There I opened the box 
with all the cheeses, crackers, and 
breads. But I needed a pop of energy. To 
heck with my cut-back-on-caffeine 
resolution: I needed to make some coffee, 
even if it was instant. In the back of a 
cabinet, I finally unearthed a jar of 
instant Folger's. Within moments, I was 
sipping a cup of the dark stuff.

   Liz and I finished organizing the food 
and supplies by placing all the equipment 
we weren't using in a coat closet outside 
the kitchenette. Then we hurried back out 
to the buffet, where we placed the 
serving pieces at strategic intervals 
before setting the tableware, plates, 
napkins, and glasses. When Julian raced 
in at four o'clock, I was dying to ask 
him how things had gone with the cops. 
But that would have to wait. From the 
bottom of one box, we pulled out plain 
white tablecloths and lofted them over 
the eating accoutrements set out on the 
buffet table - the best way to protect 
the flatware from sticky fingers. We 
agreed to finish our food prep before 
taking a dinner break at four-thirty. At 
five-fifteen, we would reconvene to check 
the cold dishes, heat up the meatballs 
and empanadas, and do our final setup.

   In the kitchen, Julian washed the 
berries, then brandished my new paring 
knife to trim the strawberries and slice 
the star fruit. I worked on the cheese 
platter while Liz started arranging the 
crackers and breads.

   "I'm not taking a dinner break, 
Goldy," Julian announced, "until I hear 
how you met this Barry guy."

   I sliced into a hunk of Gorgonzola and 
gave him a look. Liz giggled.

   I said, "OK, nosy crew. It started 
with a puzzle. Actually, it started with 
an exam review class, some class notes, 
and a fight with The Jerk."

   Julian raised a questioning eyebrow. 
"Go on."

   I moved on to a slab of fragrant 
Cheddar, and thought back. "In my college 
days, there was a single place close to 
campus where you could get espresso 
drinks: The Hilltop Cafe. I practically 
lived there. Clutching a foam cup of 
cappuccino, I'd quick-step down the Hill 
to Group Psych class. Barry Dean sat next 
to me in class, but since I had just 
become engaged to John Richard, I didn't 
really notice him. Didn't notice him, 
that is, until he asked me where I got 
that luscious-smelling coffee."

   Liz tossed her head of silver hair. 
"Goodness. That's the best pickup line 
I've ever heard."

   "Yeah, well," I said drily, as the two 
of them grinned. "On the last day of 
class before the final, the professor was 
doing one of those you-need-to-come-if-
you-plan-to-pass reviews. The night 
before, John Richard and I had our first 
fight."

   "Was this a fight of the physical 
variety?" Julian demanded, as he expertly 
moved aside a mountain of trimmed 
strawberries.

   "No, all that came later." I peeled 
the wrapper off the Camembert. "This 
particular time, John Richard barged into 
my dorm room. I'd left a message saying I 
couldn't go to a med-school party with 
him because I was preparing for the Group 
Psych review and studying for the exam. 
He shouted and carried on and threw my 
books, mugs, shoes, and clothes all over 
the place. When he stomped out, I started 
crying and couldn't stop. My eyes got so 
red and puffy that I couldn't see well 
enough to go to the review class. I was 
sure I'd end up bombing on the exam."

   Julian and Liz had stopped working and 
were leaning against the counters, all 
ears.

   "I cast my swollen eyes over the class 
list," I said dramatically, "and who 
should be listed after yours truly but 
Barry Dean. It's really not that big a 
deal, guys."

   "Wait a minute," Julian said, snapping 
his fingers. "I know that name! Barry 
Dean had a TV show out in Longmont, 
right? Not long ago, he was the answer to 
a trivia question in The Camera. What 
C.U. alum ran a short-lived quiz show in 
a nearby town.?”

   "Yup. Only it wasn't a quiz show, it 
was a scavenger hunt. Follow the clues 
around Longmont, learn about the city." I 
shook my head.

   "Barry used to love puzzles. Anyway, I 
stopped sniffling, called Barry's room, 
and left a message with his roommate 
asking if I could borrow the review-class 
notes. Next morning, someone slipped an 
index card under my door. It said: 'You 
can run but you can't hide; don't let 
your life go down the BLANK.' And then 
he'd written HINT at the bottom of the 
page: 'Check the fieldhouse.' "

   "Oh, I wish I'd had a boyfriend like 
that," Liz said with a sigh. "He wasn't 
my boyfriend!"

   "Go on,".urged Julian. "So. I went to 
the C.U. fieldhouse, and found a penciled 
sign with the Greek letter psyche on the 
door to the ladies' room. I was afraid 
I'd find the notes in a toilet, of 
course, but taped on the other side of 
the ladies' room door was a manila 
envelope. Writing on it said, let's see, 
'First third of notes, Goldy. Everything 
will be just ducky if you BLANK.' I 
thought for a few minutes, then zipped 
over to the campus duck pond, where 
another letter psyche was taped to the 
bridge, along with a second manila 
envelope that contained the second third 
of the class notes. This envelope's 
message read, 'Will just wake up and 
smell the...' So of course I dashed to 
The Hilltop Cafe, where Barry was sitting 
at a corner table and smiling like the 
proverbial Cheshire."

   "You can run but you can't hide," Liz 
repeated thoughtfully. "Don't let your 
life go down the toilet. Everything will 
be just ducky if you wake up and smell 
the coffee?"

   "Yeah," I said with resignation, as I 
started on the last cheese. "Barry looked 
at my mottled cheeks and puffed eyes, 
then glanced at my engagement ring. He 
said, 'I see your ring, and I see your 
face, and I say, don't marry this guy.' 
Which unfortunately brought a fresh 
outburst of tears from yours truly. And 
that's how Barry Dean and I became coffee 
buddies, driving all over the Boulder-
Denver area in his Mercedes with the 
basset hound in the back, looking for 
good coffee before I ignored Barry's 
advice and married the doctor from hell."

   Both Julian's and Liz's faces looked 

sad, even stricken. "Come on, guys, it's 
not that bad. The Jerk is history, and 
now we've got a big gig, thanks to the 
Quiz King of Longmont Cable. So let's do 
it."

   We finished at precisely four-thirty. 
Barry had not yet shown up.

   I figured that he must have decided 
after all to talk to the cops, instead of 
to me. Fine. That was what he needed to 
do. Right before my eyes, Denver's Most 
Eligible Bachelor had become its Most 
Eligible Basket Case.

   Liz gave me the kitchenette key, then 
offered to treat Julian to dinner at the 
mall's new gourmet sandwich shop. Julian 
arched an eyebrow in my direction. I 
shrugged and told them to go on. If I 
planned to follow through on my new 
resolve to keep better track of Arch, 
then I needed to give him a call.

   I locked the kitchenette and dropped 
the key into my apron pocket next to my 
cellular. Amazingly, I'd remembered to 
bring the phone from the van. For the 
first time, I was glad I'd finally given 
in to Arch's everyone's-got-one-but-me 
cell-phone demand, even though I knew 
he'd resent what he called my "checking 
on him." Tough tacks.

   "Yeah." This was his new cool-guy 
greeting.

   "It's Mom. I'm down at Westside - "

   "Did you get my guitar yet? Did Marla 
find the new Palm pilot? How about the 
Internet watch?"

   "I haven't had time to do anything 
besides work. I don't know about Marla. 
What are you doing?"

   "Changing my clothes after lacrosse 
practice, Mom, what do you think I'm 
doing?"

   "I was just worried - "

   He groaned. "Mom, I have to go. 
Lacrosse practice is over; I'm cold, and 
Tom is waiting for me." He paused. "Does 
this mean you won't be buying my guitar 
today?"

   "I just... well. Maybe we should talk 
later."

   He hung up, and I scolded myself for 
expecting meaningful communication at 
this stage of Arch's life. My stomach 
growled. I popped out of the lounge and 
wandered past the mall's alluring window 
displays and two huge common areas, one a 
coffee shop, the other an enormous play 
area where kids whooped it up as they 
leaped on and off hard rubber play 
sculptures in the shapes of fried eggs, 
toast, bacon, and pancakes. At length I 
came to a franchise restaurant where I 
wolfed down a depressingly cold steak 
sandwich, which tasted more of grease 
than beef. I had fifteen minutes before I 
needed to be back in the lounge. I tossed 
my trash, steeled myself, and went 
looking for Westside Music.

   It was not until five-twenty that I 
scooted back out of the store. I was now 
the irritated, humbled owner of a seven-
hundred-dollar electric guitar. Needless 
to say, the purchase had not proved to be 
as joyful as I had visualized. For some 
mysterious reason, my credit card company 
had balked at the purchase, despite the 
twenty-thousand-dollar limit they had 
recently bestowed on me. After running my 
card, the salesclerk had frowned, looked 
me over suspiciously, and announced in a 
loud voice, to me and all the people in 
line, that the sale had been denied. Did 
I, he asked loudly, want to pay by check, 
or not make the purchase? I blushed and 
meekly wrote out a check. Unfortunately, 
my card denial had rung alarms at 
Westside Music. While the people behind 
me groaned and muttered, I was forced to 
undergo a check-approval process that 
rivaled entering Pakistan without a 
passport.

   Hauling the bulky guitar, I trotted 
past the breakfast sculptures - still 
filled with screeching kids - and past 
window displays that I willed myself to 
ignore. When I reached the steak place, I 
realized I'd walked the wrong way and was 
at the opposite end of the mall from the 
lounge. If I tried to stash the 
instrument in the van, I wouldn't get 
back to the lounge until after the 
jewelry event began I gritted my teeth 
and raced back toward Westside Music. It 
was hard to ignore the curious stares 
from adults and children alike. A singing 
caterer works both ends of the mall? I 
ignored their gapes and tried to imagine 
Arch looking happy when he opened his 
gift. That happiness might last less than 
an hour, but so what? Besides, I had 
something else to look forward to: 
canceling that damn credit card.

   I arrived, breathless, at the Westside 
Music counter. I paid no attention to the 
salespeople, whom I'd mentally dubbed the 
Smirking Clerks. I announced to the 
salesman who'd handled the botched card 
sale that I needed him to keep the guitar 
for me, please, until later in the 
evening. He informed me icily that they 
closed at nine. I'd be back by then, I 
vowed, and took off.

   I stopped running only when I arrived 
at the lounge entrance. It now boasted 
two beefy security guards. Swirling 
around them was a chattering group of 
beautifully dressed women. They seemed to 
be milling about with the sole purpose of 
assessing one another's outfits, makeup, 
jewelry, and shoes. Putting my sweat-
drenched and rumpled caterer's garb out 
of my head, I ducked past the women, then 
rummaged through my tote for ID. I 
flashed it at one of the guards, who 
nodded. Then I pushed through the service 
entrance to the kitchenette, washed my 
hands, and sped out to the main room.

   To my surprise, the jewelry cases had 
also been covered with white damask 
cloths. I sprinted to the tables and 
about fainted with relief. Julian and Liz 
had set out everything. The food-laden 
buffet looked stunning.

   "Hey, Ms. Punctuality," Julian said, 
straight-faced. "Aren't you glad Barry 
had a spare key to the kitchenette?"

   "Sorry, really, both of you. And. . . 
what? Barry opened up for you?"

   Julian nodded at the stage, where 
Barry, in fresh clothes and moving as if 
he, too, had downed a few painkillers, 
stood holding court with the band.

   "He was looking for you," Julian told 
me. "Oh, but you should know that he only 
opened the kitchen when we promised him 
we'd give him something to drink. 
Something alcoholic. He wanted it from us 
instead of the bartenders, because he 
didn't want any of the salespeople to see 
him taking a nip. Several large nips, if 
the truth be told. So much for him being 
a caffeine guy."

   Liz giggled. Julian grinned broadly, 
happy to entertain.

   "So," I asked as we sauntered back to 
the kitchen, "did Barry ever talk to the 
cops?" They both shrugged. "How did you 
do with them, Big J?"

   "State patrol just asked me the basics 
- you know, what happened and when. I 
told them you'd seen the accident, too, 
but they said they had plenty of 
witnesses, and since nobody had been 
hurt, they didn't need to talk to you. 
Anyway, state patrol and the sheriff's 
department officers told Victor to take 
them down to the truck. They told me to 
come, so I did. Get this. They found a 
pair of cuff links on the cab floor. Did 
we know whose they were, they asked. 
Victor said no, and so did I. So the cops 
put 'em in one of those brown paper , 
bags. You know, the kind Tom uses for 
evidence."

   I stopped and arched an eyebrow at 
him. He grinned. "They were gold cuff 
links, Miss Nosy. They had two sets of 
initials on 'em and some writing on the 
back."

   "Whose initials? What did the writing 
say?"

   "I don't remember all of the 
initials," Julian replied. "The writing 
said something about making money. I 
don't really remember what."

   "Julian. "

   "OK, OK, I remember one set of 
initials was B. D. So maybe they were 
Barry's."

   I thought again of Barry's paranoia, 
how he'd wanted to talk to me, how he'd 
freaked out over the truck incident, how 
he'd then decided not to chat with me, 
but hustled back to his office.

   "Go figure," I murmured. Liz shook her 
head. "All Barry Dean could think about 
was getting a drink. He slugged that 
expensive Burgundy straight from the 
bottle. Said he couldn't take much more 
for one day."

   Julian added, "He said you were his 
old buddy and it would be OK - "

   "Don't worry," Liz told me, "I threw 
away the rest of that bottle. Thirty-four 
bucks a pop, though. We should charge him 
extra."

   I made for the stage. Barry was 
plugging in his microphone. No question 
about it, the man cleaned up well. In 
fact, he looked down-right spiffy in his 
tuxedo. As I got closer, though, I 
noticed his face was red and sweaty. 
Worse, he was a bit too obviously chewing 
on a mouthful of breath mints.

   "We've got a videographer here," he 
began, once he'd swallowed the candy. He 
pointed to another tuxedo-clad fellow 
clutching a camera. "Every woman 
attending gets a video of the event," 
Barry went on, "so she can see herself in 
her chosen necklace or earrings. You're 
not camera-shy, are you?" I groaned. 

"Don't be nervous, we'll cut any food 
accidents."

   "Actually, old buddy, what makes me 
nervous is you drinking wine straight 
from the bottle."

   "Oh, sorry about that." He paused and 
gave me the full benefit of his seductive 
brown eyes. He seemed to be struggling 
with words, thoughts, something. "Goldy, 
about that truck - "

   "Did you talk to Colorado State 
Patrol?"

   "Er, no, but I wondered if - "

   Whatever he was wondering was cut 
short by the band striking up "Diamonds 
Are a Girl's Best Friend." Barry muttered 
something that sounded like "Holy Moly" 
as the lounge doors opened.

   The Army of Gorgeous Women streamed 
in. Clad in bright-hued silk, satin, and 
taffeta, they hiked up their skirts and 
flew to the shrouded jewelry cases. 
Exclamations of Damn! and What’s going 
on? rose above the music. Barry grabbed 
the microphone.

   "Ladies," he announced, "and 
gentlemen," he added, acknowledging the 
sprinkling of men, "before we start with 
our serious business tonight, please help 
yourselves to drinks and hors d'oeuvres! 
Then I will explain how our event is 
going to work!"

   I made my way to the kitchen while 
Barry flattered the women and charmingly 
described how easily and effol1lessly 
they could wear these hundred-thousand-
dollar pieces they needed and owed to 
themselves, for mere pennies per month. 
Julian and Liz hauled loaded appetizer 
trays out to the guests. I snagged a 
platter of empanadas and sailed after 
them.

   ". . . And for those of you who are 
still in need of a bargain for that next 
big parry," Barry was announcing 
fervently, "look for the perfect pair of 
shoes at Prince and Grogan's Red Tag 
Sale! Tonight, you Elite Shoppers are 
entitled to an additional fifteen percent 
off. . . ."

   "Barry Dean is so charming," Marla 
said as she sidled up next to me. She 
winked and dunked an empanada into 
guacamole. She was wearing a stunning 
royal blue dress with a matching cape. 
Without her usual array of glittering 
jewelry, she looked different. She'd 
informed me she wanted to come to the 
event as a clean canvas. "I'd love to 
listen to Barry Dean all the time. In my 
car, in the bathroom, in bed. . . while 
looking at his picture."

   "How was the spa?"

   "Fabulous! Plus, I have so much to ask 
you, especially about - "

   "Marla I have to - "

   "Calm down, I'm having a couple of 
empanadas." She grabbed her cape and 
folded it over her arm, then nabbed two 
more empanadas, downing one and then the 
other, while four other women helped 
themselves to my tray.

   "Tell me about the truck," Marla 
whispered conspiratorially, once the 
women had moved on. With a paper napkin, 
she wiped creamy green stuff from her 
upper lip.

   "You heard about that already?" I 
asked, stunned. Marla opened her eyes 
wide, a picture of offended innocence. Of 
course the Queen of Gossip knew about 
everything. Why was I surprised? "Well," 
I began, "somebody got into a truck, 
slammed down the accelerator, barely 
missed Barry the Charming, not to mention 
yours truly. Then whoever was driving 
crashed the truck into the berm. Trying 
to get out of the way, Julian, Barry, and 
I all got soaked with mud and grime. I 
lost a whole box of shrimp rolls, not to 
mention a big chunk of setup time."

   "How'd you ever get the food done, 
then?" she mumbled through another 
empanada.

   "The excavator and his crew helped. 
They brought in almost every box. 
Actually, I guess he's the construction 
manager for the mall addition. He said he 
felt responsible for one of his trucks 
almost killing us."

   "That's not Victor Wilson, is it?"

   I sighed. And here I thought Marla 
only knew folks with incomes of a million 
and up. "How can you possibly know. . ."

   Marla looked sideways, taking in the 
fact that Julian and Liz were bringing 
out the first plates of truffles. "I 
don't know him. I went out with his 
brothers. Don't give me that look. 
Consecutively, not simultaneously. First 
was Bachman. Bachman's a surgeon, a 
friend of The Jerk's. Well, sort of a 
friend. John Richard couldn't stand that 
Bachman gave better parties than he did, 
which is why I went out with him." She 
frowned at the empanadas, as if unsure 
whether to have another one. "Victor's 
other brother is an attorney, has a big 
place in Aspen, built for him by Victor, 
he said."

   "Nice. Now if you don't mind - "

   "Julian told me they found some cuff 

links inside the truck." Marla finally 
decided to tuck into another empanada, 
her fifth. "Do you have any idea whose 
they were?"

   "No. I don't suppose you know whose 
they were."

   "Not yet. But I will. Here's a juicy 
tidbit for you, though. Shane Stockham 
has just lost his lease at The Gadget 
Guy. He's trying to placate dear wife 
Page, who told us at the spa that she 
heard this morning about his cash dam, 
which is the opposite of cash flow. Page 
wants a bauble from the diamond people, 
and Shane's stretched thinner than gold 
plate. Brace yourself: You might see 
fireworks."

   I glanced at the Stockhams, whom I was 
doing lunch for later in the week. Had I 
received the final payment for their 
event? I couldn't remember. As I watched, 
Shane reached for his wife's shoulder. 
She moved out of his reach. I groaned. 
After I refilled the platter, I took up a 
plate of truffles and headed for some 
hungry-looking ladies who were drooling 
over the handsome twenty-something guys 
in the band. Barry, who'd just finished a 
glass of water (at least, I hoped it was 
water) stepped back up to the microphone.

   "I truly can't believe how gorgeous 
you all are! You look as if... well, as 
if you were going out for a fancy dinner 
with your husband's new boss!" This was 
met with squeals of laughter. "But 
ladies... would you feel completely 
confident if you weren't wearing some 
very special jewelry, the kind that 
indicated how important you really are? 
What if your husband's new boss happens 
to be a twenty-eight-year-old woman who 
wears skimpy dresses from Escada and 
diamond necklaces from Tiffany's?"

   The women glanced uneasily at one 
another. Clearly, Barry's attempt to make 
them feel insecure was hitting home.

   "Wouldn't you want to be certain you 
looked your best?" Barry crooned. "But 
you wouldn't want to wear a piece that 
could bore you in a year, would you?" 
There was a ripple of edgy laughter. 
"That's why we're here! We'll get you to 
elegant at a fraction of the cost... and 
next month you could start wearing 
something completely different!"

   As he launched into an explanation of 
leasing, I glanced around and saw Julian 
chatting with Liz and, of all people, her 
son, Teddy. Dressed in faded jeans and a 
tattered red sweatshirt, Teddy looked as 
gangly and insecure as he had that 
morning. But I had thought Teddy wasn't 
picking Liz up until later I certainly 
couldn't afford for her to leave now.

   Barry finished his speech to frenzied 
clapping, squeals of pleasure, and the 
band's enthusiastic rendition of "Ruby, 
Ruby." The empanada and truffle platters 
were again almost empty. On either side 
of the room, the jewelry salespeople 
whipped the damask cloths from the 
jewelry displays. And then something 
bizarre seemed to be happening. There was 
noise, scuffling, muffled epithets, and 
struggling.

   People were fighting.

   I turned in time to see two security 
guards grabbing Teddy Fury by his elbows. 
Then the meaty guards picked Teddy up 
under his arms and began dragging him 
from the lounge. Liz, up next to the 
guards' impassive faces, was scolding 
them - to no avail.

   Dumbfounded, I scanned the crowd for 
Julian. Oh, Lord. He'd abandoned his 
catering tasks and was standing at the 
corner of the stage, engaged in a heated, 
fist-shaking argument with Barry Dean. 
Barry, his arms crossed, was shaking his 
head.

   "This isn't happening," I whispered in 
horror to no one in particular. One thing 
I knew from long food-service experience: 
If there's a fight at a party, everyone 
will blame the caterer.

   "Oooh, I just love being waited on," 
cooed a woman at my elbow as she reached 
for an appetizer. I whirled. It was Pam 
Disharoon. The blonde wore a skimpy hot 
pink dress that showed lots of cleavage 
and even more leg. "How do you like my 
outfit?" she demanded, wiggling her hips 
the same way I'd already seen her do with 
Barry.

   I said, "Fabulous. Is it a nightgown 
or a dress?"

   Pam pouted. "Both." She grabbed the 
last empanada and scampered away.

   I put down the tray and moved quickly 
behind the jewelry salespeople to get to 
the stage. Up there, Liz had joined the 
Barry-Julian squabble. The guards reached 
the doors, wrenched them open, and hauled 
Teddy out. The band kicked up the music a 
few notches, but the noise of Barry, Liz, 
and Julian arguing was still clear.

   I hopped onto the stage and approached 
the three of them, looking as stern as 
possible. They formed a tight clutch of 
hostility.

   "He's a child - " Liz exclaimed, her 
voice just below a shout. Her silver hair 
shone in the spotlights.

   "He's a thief!" Barry retorted, his 

face flushed, his chin pointing defiantly 
at Liz.

   "You just cannot do that to a kid," 
Julian cried angrily. "You're going to 
ruin his - "

   "Excuse me," I said with as much 
authority as I could muster. "This 
argument needs to be put on hold, and I 
mean, right now. Liz and Julian, go back 
to work right away. Barry," I said 
sternly, "you hired me. There are two 
hundred potential clients out there who 
will remember this party for this 
altercation, unless you stop this minute. 

We can talk later. Understand?"

   All three mumbled OK, yes, sorry. 
Julian and Liz hastened down the steps at 
the side of the stage. Barry opened his 
mouth to say something, but he couldn't 
get the words out before another volcano 
of yelling erupted.

   By one of the two cash registers - set 
up to handle the leasing arrangements - a 
man and woman were arguing. They were 
young, they were attractive. . . they 
were Page Stockham and. . . Shane 
Stockham.

   "A thousand dollars a month!" Page 
shrieked. With her blond hair done up in 
a fancy French twist, and her slender 
body sheathed in white silk, she looked 
like a latter-day Audrey Hepburn. But her 
demeanor was the opposite of the 
gracious, softspoken Hepburn's. She 
screeched at her husband: "You cheap 
bastard!"

   "Don't talk to me like that," Shane 
bellowed, using the same tone of voice 
I'd heard so many times when he disagreed 
with lacrosse referees. "You're lucky you 
get anything!"

   "You tightfisted asshole!"

   "You bitch!"

   Shane lunged forward and slapped Page 
in the face. My stomach turned over. Page 
responded by kneeing her husband in the 
groin. When the two backed away from each 
other, the crowd parted to give them 
space.

   At that moment, the security guards 
reentered the lounge. Dumbfounded, they 
looked to see what the new disruption was 
about.

   I knew what it was about, having had 
lots of experience in the domestic 
violence department. I jumped off the 
stage and pushed through the throng 
toward the warring partners. The 
Stockhams had stopped screaming 
obscenities. Shane was trying to slap 
Page again. She was fending him off. I 
tensed my biceps, stepped up next to 
them, and grabbed the right arm of Page 
and the left arm of Shane. Using all my 
strength, I pulled them apart.

   "Guards!" I yelled. "Come here now, 
please! Come take Mrs. Stockham out, now! 
Now! Please!" I glared at Shane Stockham 
and said tersely, "You need to back off, 
Shane. Right now." I continued to grip 
his left forearm. Shane was a well-
muscled man, with slicked-back brown hair 
and a handsome baby face. He had that 
young, all-powerful movie star look. 
"Stop this," I said in a low voice. "A 
piece of jewelry isn't worth a fight."

   The security guards reached for Page. 
She yanked herself away from me, then 
hopped quickly behind one of the jewelry 
display cases. Shane, meanwhile, also 
pulled out of my grasp. He turned his 
back and walked toward the stage, away 
from the exit doors.

   "Hey, Shane! Cheap bastard!" Page 
taunted. "Business failure! Come get me 
now!"

   The guards, upset at being foiled, 
lumbered a bit more quickly on either 
side of the case, trying to apprehend 
Page. Again she was too quick for them. 
With a few agile steps, Page danced back 
out by the buffet table, not far from me, 
but probably twenty yards from where 
Shane was walking away.

   Shane turned slowly. His furious eyes 
fixed on his wife. Page hissed something 
incomprehensible. Shane, in turn, raced 
back in her direction. Page neighed in 
triumph.

   Shane was charging toward his wife. 
There was just one thing in his way: me. 
A warning chill raced down my spine.

   "Security!" I squealed.

   Shane kept coming. My mind conjured up 
Shane as the hot-tempered lacrosse coach 
and Arch, my little Arch, who was trying 
so hard to become a tough athlete. If I 
just stepped out of Shane's way, he'd hit 
Page. Do what Arch does, I thought. 
Pronto.

   I'd seen it over and over. Arch set 
his position against the attack man, then 
used his body weight to send the attacker 
in the opposite direction. When Shane was 
a yard from me, I placed my shoulder at 
right angles to his chest. Then, just as 
he was about to slam into me, I jerked up 
and under his chest, and whacked him with 
such force that he reeled upward. The 
muscled poundage of Shane Stockham went 
airborne. I staggered backward. 
Outstretched hands couldn't prevent me 
from falling. I thudded to the floor, 
landing with a jolt of pain on my 
shoulder.

   The security guys, who'd called for 
help, finally forced their way forward. 
Two of them manhandled a shrieking Page 
toward the exit. Three guards seized 
Shane and pulled him upright. When they 
tried to march him out behind his wife, I 
noticed that he was limping slightly.

   "You nosy bitch!" Shane yelled at me, 
his face scarlet with fury. "What do you 
know about anything?"

   I rubbed my shoulder. For the second 
time that day, I wondered if it was 
broken.

-5-
   That was pretty awful," Marla 
commented as she escorted me to the 
kitchen to tend to my shoulder. "Is 
somebody going to call the cops? The 
guards shouldn't be the only ones dealing 
with Shane."

   "I'll call the cops," Julian assured 
us. He asked if he could check my 
shoulder; I said yes. "It's not broken," 
he reported, after gently poking the 
shoulder blade and asking me to move it 
in a circle. He frowned, pulled out his 
cell phone, and punched buttons. "I'm 
going to run down to the parking lot, see 
if I can snag a cop who might still be 
there. I'll let the sheriff's department 
dispatcher know what's what, too. Where 
would those guards have taken Shane, the 
mall security office?"

   "Probably," I replied weakly. What was 
going on with Shane Stockham? Did he dare 
think that I'd still be putting on a 
lunch for him day after next? At that 
moment, I couldn't ponder anything that 
was two days away. I did want to know the 
reason for the fight among Liz, Barry, 
and Julian. Julian had taken off, which 
only left one person to ask.

   "Liz," I began, "I need to know why 
you and Julian - "

   "Please," she said in a low voice, as 
she bent over the sink, where she was 
washing platters. She would not meet my 
eyes. Marla, all interest, leaned in. Liz 
said stiffly, "I promise to tell you 
later, Goldy. My son should call me soon. 
Then I'll know more." She turned the 
water off and lifted her chin. Tears 
spilled as she faced me. "Look, I'm sorry 
I argued with Barry, but he started it. 
If you could just trust me to help us get 
through this party, I promise I'll tell 
you the whole story later."

   I gnawed my lip. Liz had become 
invaluable to my catering business. I 
simply could not, would not force her to 
explain herself in front of Marla. Teddy 
had been hauled out; the Stockham crisis 
had erupted right after that. And Liz had 
apologized. I murmured that it was fine 
for us to talk at her convenience.

   Liz nodded her thanks, then worked 
silently drying the platters and 
assembling new trays. Marla filled a dish 
towel with ice and lightly pressed it 
into my shoulder. The events of the day 
filled my mind. First the truck had 
almost mowed me down, then Shane Stockham 
had almost mowed me down. And, as Liz had 
reminded me, we were in the middle of an 
event. . . .

   Marla murmured in my ear, "You should 
have stayed in bed."

   The band burst into "The Emerald 
Isle." After a few moments, against 
Marla's stern advice, I tentatively 
lifted a tray. I ignored stares as I 
transported it out to the buffet. Marla 
bustled along beside me, tossing smiles 
at the gawkers. When the guests realized 
no new crisis was brewing, they turned 
their attention back to the jewelry cases 
and continued trying on glittering 
necklaces, earrings, and bracelets. The 
videographer slithered through the crowd, 
occasionally asking women to pose for 
him. When Marla insisted he follow her to 
a jewelry case, I wondered fleetingly if 
the videographer had caught the 
Stockhams' conflict on tape.

   A few moments later, Marla magically 
reappeared at my side. She stepped back 
for me to admire her newly rented double 
strand of pearls with diamonds. Brilliant 
matching earrings and tiny barrettes 
wreathed her pretty, plump face in 
twinkles. I gave her a thumbs-up.

   She said, "You don't want to know what 

these cost."

   "You're right." I straightened 
platters and stirred the meatballs in the 
sauce. "So," I asked her, "do you have 
any idea what Barry and Liz and Julian 
were fighting about?"

   "I can guess," she said. "You don't 
need Liz to tell you the whole story; I 
can fill you in on most of it. Don't you 
know that little Teddy's had a few 
shoplifting incidents here at Westside? 
More than a few, if my sources are 
correct. Julian must know about Teddy's 
problems, because he was in on the 
argument. When he comes back, I can 
cross-examine him."

   I groaned. "Well, then, what was Shane 
and Page's fight about? Do their spending 
disagreements often turn violent?"

   "I've heard stories," Marla replied 
knowingly. Three beautifully outfitted 
women sidled up to the table. Marla's 
eyes glided over to them. "I can't talk 
about the Stockhams out here, Goldy," she 
announced in a stage whisper, "with 
people eavesdropping. You know, I tried 
to warn you - "

   I interrupted Marla by asking her to 
come back to the kitchenette after a few 
minutes. I picked up the empty chafer of 
meatballs and hightailed it back there 
myself.

   When she pushed through the door, I 
was ladling meatballs into a sauté pan to 
heat them up. The rich smell of Burgundy 
sauce steamed through the small cooking 
space.

   "If Shane is hell-bent on doing harm 
to his wife, then I'm not going to cater 
a party at his place on Wednesday or any 
other day," I said. My voice sounded a 
tad more rancorous than I intended.

   Marla shrugged. "Shane and Page have 
one of those love-you-one-minute, hate-
you-the-next relationships. You watch, 
tomorrow he'll buy her a ruby bracelet, 
or a round trip ticket to Paris, or maybe 
both. That's the glory of numerous credit 
cards, yes?" Actually, I did not know, 
having limited myself to one about-to-be-
canceled card. "Shane just received that 
eviction notice from Barry, although I 
think it's been coming for some time now. 
You should have heard Page's reaction, 
like a rich kid who's been denied 
Christmas. By the way, she told me that 
they added folks to the guest list for 
the lunch you're doing for them. Shane 
wants to include a group of potential 
investors to underwrite his moving the 
business on-line."

   I peered at her in disbelief. "He's 
added to the guest list? Does he have 
some new caterer in mind?"

   Marla popped a piece of Gorgonzola 
into her mouth. "Mm-mm."

   She moved her hips in time with her 
chewing, then said, "Shane still thinks 
you're his caterer, doll."

   "That son of a bitch told me the lunch 
was for his best customers."

   "Yeah, well, he told Page the eviction 
was just a tiny setback, and that he'd 
lease her something really gorgeous 
today." Marla nabbed a morsel of 
Camembert. "You'd think losing your 
livelihood would mean cutting back on 
expenses. You can imagine how well Page 
would react, in fact, is reacting to that 
idea."

   As Marla bustled behind me on my way 
back to the buffet table, I recalled 
those long months when The Jerk had 
refused to pay the full amount he'd been 
ordered to give Arch and me. There'd been 
weeks of peanut butter, homemade bread, 
nonfat dry milk, chunk tuna, and noodles. 
When I was strung out beyond my ability 
to cope, our priest had come to visit. He 
only came once, admitting he didn't want 
to jeopardize John Richard's continued 
financial support of the parish by 
appearing to take sides. I was tempted to 
bring up John Richard's current fling 
with a woman in the choir, but did not. 
In any event, the priest informed me that 
the most desperate folks he counseled 
were ones who went from having money to 
suddenly not having money. Most of them, 
he added, lived in denial for at least a 
year, unable to give up the high life. So 
they racked up debt that took decades to 
repay. And he certainly hoped, he 
concluded as he chomped into his sixth 
peanut butter cookie that I had made 

especially for his visit, that I would 
not bury myself in debt! I'd sat in 
silence as he swallowed the last of the 
cookie, then asked him to leave.

   Well. Mustn't grumble, as the Brits 
are wont to say.

   I assessed the buffet table. If Shane 
and Page wanted to live in denial, that 
was their problem, not mine. At the 
moment, we needed still more refilled 
trays. I headed back to the kitchen. 
Marla made a wide U-turn and followed.

   "OK," she began as I pulled a new tray 
of beautifully arranged, succulent fruit 
from the refrigerator. "Here's the scoop 
on why Barry kicked Shane out of 
Westside. First, are you aware of how 
they figure rents in a mall?"

   I frowned at the fruit tray. How mall 
rents were figured. Wait - I did know 
this. "Yes, Barry told me. It's a base 
figure plus extra for the - what's it 
called? . . . CAM. Common area 
management," I added, as I scoured the 
refrigerator for our Creamy Fruit 
Dressing.

   "Very good," said Marla.

   I carefully placed dollops of the 
dressing - equal parts sour cream and 
mayonnaise - into a crystal bowl that fit 
in the center of the tray.

   "That's not quite all - "

   "Hold on." I paused before covering 
the large jar of dressing, long enough 
for Marla to grab a spoon and help 
herself to a large mouthful. I instantly 
prayed for the county health inspector to 
be a thousand miles away. "Rents," I 
said, as I stored the jar. "OK. If a 
store is doing well enough, it's supposed 
to pay a percentage of its sales to the 
mall. But The Gadget Guy shouldn't have 
had a problem with that. That place is 
always mobbed!" I shouldered the fruit 
tray. "Was always mobbed."

   "The Gadget Guy was a huge success," 
Marla agreed, as she followed me out of 
the kitchen. "The place did so well that 
they should have been paying extra to the 
mall owners, but Shane cried poor. So 
Barry had his accounts audited, and guess 
what? The Gadget Guy owed the mall owner, 
what's their name?"

   "Pennybaker International."

   "Owed Pennybaker over a million 
dollars. Pay up in thirty days, 
Pennybaker said, or you're out of here, 
forever. Shane didn't even have a hundred 
thou, much less a mil. The eviction 
notice was delivered yesterday 
afternoon."

   I set my tray on the buffet, where 
women dripping with leased jewels dug in 
for second, third, or - was it possible? 
- fourth helpings of truffles. They 
squealed and wiggled and raved about the 
rich chocolate. Curse of the cocktail 
buffet: People eat too much, because it's 
all right there in front of them. When 
I'd retrieved a load of glasses and 
plates, I stopped to scan the lounge. 
Barry was nowhere in sight.

   Marla moved away. I unloaded the dirty 
dishes and glasses, then began a lap 
around the lounge to retrieve more of 
them. Liz and Julian, I noted thankfully, 
were bent on the same task at the room's 
opposite end. The dregs of the buzzing 
crowd clustered around the jewelry 
display cases, doing last-minute deals. 
Marla waved at friends, pointed to her 
new necklace, earrings, and barrettes, 
and then nipped back toward me. She must 
have gleaned a final tidbit of gossip.

   "More news," she said eagerly. 
"Shane's future is looking even dimmer."

   "Financially?" I replied. "Or legally, 
after he gets through with the cops for 
coming at his wife?"

   "In the money department, Barry's not 
backing off on demanding the mall's 
million." Marla's voice was hoarse. 
"Shane claims he wants more time to bring 
together the cash. That party you, uh, 
may be doing at his house? He's hoping 
these potential investors will write him 
checks to bail him out of everything. So. 
How's your shoulder?"

   "It's fine," I lied, realizing my best 
friend wanted to get back to shopping and 
talking, not necessarily in that order. 
"Thanks for your company. And all the 
good info," I added with a wink.

   Marla nodded, gave me a huge smile, 
and skittered away to coo over someone's 
diamond necklace.

   It was almost seven-thirty, and the 
lounge was finally emptying. At least the 
platters had held up to the end. Liz and 
Julian appeared and also asked about my 
shoulder. I told them it was fine. Liz 
wondered if she and Julian could grab a 
quick cup of coffee, as they needed to 
talk. Then they would come back to do 
cleanup. I nodded. She didn't mention the 
argument with Barry. I certainly hoped 
she didn't want to visit with Julian so 
they could agree on a story.

   Stop being paranoid, I ordered myself. 
Marla swooped back and signaled that we 
go into the kitchenette. "I've got a 
flask in my purse," she whispered. "This 
was supposed to be a cocktail party, and 
all Barry Dean managed to offer was wine. 
Disgusting. I've got some sherry in here, 
Dry Sack, your favorite. Why don't you 
have some?"

   I politely declined her offer, which 
brought on a why-can't-you-ever-relax 
harangue that I ignored.

   "OK," I said, after Marla took a sip 
of her sherry. "What else have you got?"

   Marla leaned forward, eager to share. 
"Shane and Page fought because he didn't 
lease her a piece from the six-thou-a-
month category. Page is a compulsive 
shopper, like her sister. The woman is 
crazed, I'm telling you. Maybe they both 
are. Anyway, Page wants everything her 
sister has, and the sister got a piece 
from that six-thou-a-month case."

   "Her sister?"

   "Pam Disharoon. Goldy, where have you 
been?"

   I wrinkled my nose at her. "The blond 
lingerie saleslady? She has so much stuff 
that Page Stockham is jealous of her?"

   "Word is that Pam is loaded with 
goodies, all gifts from boyfriends. She 
doesn't have to work in sales, but she 
does for the thrill of it. Apparently, 
she's a whiz at both selling stuff and 
getting stuff. Free stuff. She goes to a 
guy's house. She and the guy have a wild 
lovemaking session on his Oriental rug, 
all while the guy's wife is away, of 
course. Pam says, Oh, if only I had a rug 
like this, I could think of us on it. 
Next thing you know, a Kirman's delivered 
to Pam's front door. I'm telling you, the 
woman is infamous. I can't believe you 
haven't heard about her."

   "I've been working. Too hard, 
according to you. What about Page?"

   Marla sniffed. "Page is insanely 
jealous of Pam. Page watches her sister 
like a hawk, to see what she gets. Then 
Page goes out and buys the same thing, 
only bigger. It's like a game between 
them."

   "And Shane fits in how?"

   Marla sipped more sherry. "Well, I 
just heard Shane and Page are in 
counseling, individually and together. 
Last month Page spent fifteen thousand 
dollars just on stuff. That woman can't 
walk past a store without buying 
something that she thinks Pam might have. 
Page just bought a new white Audi, 
because one of Pam's boyfriends gave her 
one. Page can't stand the fact that Pam's 
Audi license plate says 'GOGIRL.' She 
thinks it means go get more stuff."

   I stacked the last of the dirty 
platters in a cardboard box. "So Page 
bought one because Pam had one? There’s a 
great motivation for purchasing a luxury 
vehicle."

   Marla put down her glass and 
obligingly scraped a platter into the new 
trash bag. She hesitated, as if trying to 
remember something. "And that's not all," 
she added. "Before she was kicked out of 
tonight's party, Page told a friend of 
mine that Shane had told her that ninety 
percent of the new stuff Page just bought 
has to go back. Page was upset, whoo! The 
last ten percent, she stowed in a storage 
shed - her fourth. But it's not as if she 
isn't trying to change. I hear she's on 
an antidepressant that's supposed to help 
with compulsive spending. Plus, she's in 
individual counseling, as well as a 
support group for overspenders. 
Anonymous, of course."

   "For crying out loud - " I couldn't 
imagine keeping any secrets from Marla. 
The woman was a bloodhound.

   "You haven't heard the worst of it. 
The reason Shane had to come with her 
here? As part of their counseling deal, 
Page gets no credit cards, no checkbook. 
So if she wants something, Shane has to 
be there to get it for her."

   "How'd she get the fifteen thou worth 
of stuff this month, then?"

   Marla raised an eyebrow. "Ellie 
McNeely called and left a message for 
Shane. He'd applied for a loan and it had 
come through. The minute Page heard it, 
she raced down to the bank and talked the 
clerk into letting her get the dough. 
Bye-bye loan."

   We were interrupted by Liz and Julian 
entering the kitchenette. Julian told me 
Barry had given us the go-ahead to pack 
up the buffet.

   "Would it be possible for me to leave 
early?" Liz asked. "I need to go find 
Teddy - "

   I held up a finger for her to wait. 
"Marla? If you don't mind, I need to 
visit with my staff."

   Marla assumed an attitude of 
peevishness, then winked at Julian and 
flounced out.

   To Liz and Julian, I said gently, "You 
realize how arguing with a client during 
an event can wreck everything." Liz 
opened her mouth to protest, then stopped 
when she saw my face. "This is not 
nosiness, Liz. This is your boss needing 
to know why you were fighting with the 
client. . . especially," I added with a 
smile, "when we haven't received the 
staff gratuity."

   They both hesitated. Then Julian said 
to Liz, "You'd better just tell her."

   Liz's thin, pretty face was tense. 
"Teddy's had trouble here at the mall - "

   "Trouble?" I interjected, remembering 
what Marla had told me. "What kind of 
trouble?"

   Outside the kitchenette, Barry was 
making an announcement that customers 
only had five minutes to complete their 
leases. . . and they might want to stow 
their pieces in their cars, if they were 
moving on to make great shoe deals at 
Prince & Grogan!

   "My son had a theft problem," Liz said 
huskily. "You probably read about it in 
the paper, they just couldn't release his 
name because he's a juvenile."

   "I actually heard about his. . . 
problem from a friend. What does that 
have to do with Barry?"

   Reluctantly, Liz continued: "Teddy... 
used to wait in that eggs-and-bacon area, 
where parents let their kids play. 
Sometimes people sit at tables around the 
edge of the play area, to drink coffee or 
tea. You know it?" I nodded. "Teddy 
would. . . watch, until the parents or 
the coffee drinkers were distracted. Then 
he'd walk off with their bags. Their 
purses, too." She ran her fingers through 
her short silver hair. "Their wallets. 
That's why I wanted to talk to Julian. I 
just keep thinking if Teddy could have a 
role model - "

   "Liz. The fight with Barry? Why did 
the security guys haul Teddy out of the 
lounge?"

   "Law enforcement has talked and talked 
to Teddy, and he's doing so much better. 
But then Barry Dean," Liz began savagely, 
"barred him from Westside. Technically, 
it's called being trespassed. He's not 
allowed into the mall for any reason. If 
mall security catches him, they 
automatically call the cops and have him 
transported away - "

   "This sucks!" Julian interjected 
angrily. "Here's this seventeen-year-old 
kid, who's just trying to find his mom so 
he can give her a ride home, and then 
that creep gets him dragged off - "

   "Sounds like Barry Was just trying to 
do his job," I pointed out gently.

   "Oh, puh-leeze," Liz scoffed. "Barry 
didn't have to have Teddy humiliated. 
There were enough guards holding on to 
him to stop an army, for God's sake. And 
I'd like to know why my son was 
immediately hauled away in front of 
everybody when he didn't even do 
anything, and Barry stood still while 
Shane Stockham tried to beat up his wife 
and whacked into you instead. Hello?"

   "Well, uh," I said, but couldn't 
finish. Liz had a point. "Anyway, why am 
I talking to you?" Liz's voice was 
defiant. "I need to go find out where my 
son is." She tugged off her chef's jacket 
and tossed it onto the counter. "If you 
don't want to pay me for my work today, 
that's fine. Good-bye."

   With this, she stomped away.

   "That went well," Julian commented.

   "Look, I'm sorry," I retorted. "But 
why didn't they just agree to meet 
outside the mall? If the kid knows he's 
not supposed to come into the mall, why 
would he do it?" I let out a breath. 
"This was a Goldilocks' Catering party. 
And we saw not one, but two fights." I 
slumped against the counter, exhausted 
and in pain. Worse, I felt defeated.

   Julian's dark eyebrows knit into a 
straight line. "Let me help you with the 
cleanup and packing. I'll stay as late as 
you want. And . . . I know a catering 
staff shouldn't argue with anyone. So you 
don't have to pay me, either." He paused. 
"Teddy just felt so awful when I talked 
to him tonight."

   I resisted commenting on how awful the 
people Teddy stole from undoubtedly felt 
when their packages and purses 
disappeared. Instead, I thanked Julian 
for staying to help. And of course I 
would pay him, and Liz, too. Talking 
about her brought up a fresh worry. She 
and I had come down from Aspen Meadow 
together... . What if she couldn't find 
Teddy? How would she get home? Did she 
have a cell phone? When I voiced this 
worry to Julian, he said Liz had his cell 
number. If she got stranded, she'd be 
sure to call.

   By the time Julian and I had cleaned 
the kitchen - to make way for more mess - 
and reentered the lounge, the crowd had 
vanished. At my suggestion, Julian 
offered the remains of the buffet 
platters to the band and the jewelry 
salespeople. They pounced as if they 
hadn't eaten for months. I smiled. "Free 
food" is always great publicity for my 
business. And after the evening's crises, 
I needed all the help I could get.

   I stacked more empty trays and carried 
them to the kitchen. As usual, Barry had 
done another of his disappearing acts. 
Stockham conflict or no, if Barry thought 
I was going to leave without my check for 
the staff gratuity, he was wrong.

   After twenty minutes of washing 
platters and shuffling them to the van, 
we were almost done. Still no Barry. 
After all my admonitions about staying 
cool, I was starting to simmer.

   "One of the musicians gave me a note 
the last time you were out at the van," 
Julian said as he brought the last of the 
platters into the kitchen. "I thought it 
was for me, but it was for you. From 
Barry Dean."

   "A note? Or a check?"

   Julian wordlessly handed me a single 
piece of paper.

   Hey Goldy! it read. Great event, 
despite the problems. I have your check, 
and a tip for you, too. Meet me at the 
Prince & Grogan shoe sale at 8:30. Your 
buddy, B.

   It sure didn't feel as if Barry Dean 
was my buddy anymore. I glanced at my 
watch: quarter to nine. Great.

   "Look, Julian, Barry's being elusive. 
I've got to find him in Prince and Grogan 
to get our gratuity. And I need to pick 
up Arch's guitar, too, before I get 
there."

   "You bought Arch a guitar?" Julian 
asked, his eyes brightening. "Why don't 
you let me pick it up? It'll save us some 
time."

   "You don't know Westside Music. I'm 
not even sure they'll let me have it, and 
I just paid them hundreds of dollars for 
the damn thing."

   When we hurried back out to the 
lounge, the lights were blinking. A bored 
voice from an unseen loudspeaker 
announced that the mall was closing in 
fifteen minutes. I looked around in 
dismay. Julian and I had done quite a 
bit, but at least twenty more minutes of 
cleanup awaited us.

   "Look," Julian said, aware of my 
problem. "I'll finish the cleanup extra 
fast while you nab the guitar and the 
check. Then I'll meet you back here, say, 
no later than ten after nine. They won't 
lock us in, I'm sure. Plus, that'll give 
Liz time to call if she doesn't find 
Teddy. Then we can drive in convoy out of 
the lot. I don't want you all driving out 
of here on your own, what with killer 
truckers on the loose. You'd better leave 
now, though, in case Westside Music 
closes early. You can always get the 
staff gratuity check later, you know." In 
the catering biz, "getting the check 
later" was not something you should ever 
do. Food is perishable; events get messed 
up; people decide not to give you your 
money. But I had no time to remind Julian 
of all that. I needed to get Arch's 
guitar. I thanked Julian and dashed out 
of the lounge.

   The mall was finally emptying. Rolling 
metal gates had been drawn halfway down 
most stores' entrances. Shoppers, weighed 
down with bags, straggled toward the 
exits. Strobe lights flashed overhead, 
and unseen speakers warned customers to 
shove off. Only one family remained at 
the bacon-and-eggs area. Their young son, 
perhaps four years of age, was clinging 
to an oversized piece of toast.

   "I can't leave the bwed alone 
tonight," he howled. "The bwed will be 
lonely!"

   I walked faster and prayed that Tom 
and Arch had arrived home safely from 
lacrosse practice. Had Shane left his 
mild-mannered assistant in charge of the 
usual carnage at practice, I wondered, 
while he came here to the mall to 
threaten his wife and me?

   At Westside Music, a much-body-pierced 
young woman was guarding the front doors. 
When I arrived, she lifted her metal-
dotted chin and announced in a chilly 
voice that the store was closed. But I 
could see a clerk at the register, the 
same fellow who'd waited on me in the 
first place. I said I'd only be a minute, 
pushed past the sparkly gatekeeper, and 
scurried over to the salesclerk. Deep in 
thought, he was counting the contents of 
the cash register, one bill at a time, 
very slowly, mouthing twenty-two, twenty-
three, twenty-four; twenty-five. . . .

   "I need my guitar, please," I said 
sweetly.

   The guy shook his head without looking 
up and kept counting. I could see the 
guitar leaning against a CD case behind 
him. I rummaged through my pockets and 
pulled out the crumpled receipt.

   "Please, sir. I'm not here to cause 
you trouble. Just keep counting and hand 
me that guitar I've already bought - "

   Again, the clerk shook his head. 
Overhead, the lights in the store dimmed. 
Once more, I asked him to hand me the 
guitar; the fellow acted as if he had not 
heard a word I'd said. One more reason to 
discourage Arch from joining a garage 
band: Musicians go deaf fast.

   "Well," I persisted, keeping my tone 
light, "since it's clear you don't give a 
fig about customer service, I'm just 
going to take matters into my own hands." 
The clerk wrinkled his brow but did not 
cease counting. I moved closer to the 
cash register.

   "We're closed!" bellowed Body-Pierce 
Gal from the entrance. Startled, the deaf 
cash-counter glanced up as I sidled in 
behind him and grabbed Arch's guitar. 
Tucking it under my arm, I waved the 
receipt at him. He peered at it, then 
frowned and nodded. I raced toward the 
exit. Mission accomplished, I thought. I 
sprinted past the startled gatekeeper and 
headed for Prince & Grogan, Barry Dean, 
and the money Liz and Julian seemed so 
intent on refusing. At the entrance to 
Prince & Grogan, I pulled the guitar to 
my chest and zipped inside. The P & G 
employees were busying themselves with 
their tallies. Where had Barry's note 
said he'd be? Ah yes, the shoe sale. In 
the far right corner of the main floor, I 
spied an enormous banner: Red Tag Shoe 
Sale!!! Clutching the guitar, I sped 
toward it.

   Making a straight path to shoes proved 
a challenge, however. Scented air seduced 
my nose to the perfume counter. Brightly 
colored spring outfits on impossibly 
slender mannequins made me wonder if I'd 
ever again have a slim figure. Probably 
not. My cross-store hike was slowed by 
the dimming of lights and relentless 
announcements that the store was closing.

   I skittered around departments and 
displays until I finally landed at a 
large area denoted by a fancy-script 
sign: Ladies' Shoes. In the plush P & G 
redo of two years ago, the shoe 
department had been outfitted with thick 
beige carpet, beige-striped loveseats, 
and brown-patterned chairs. Artfully 
placed among the furniture were glass-
topped tables that probably had been 
neatly stacked with shoes before the 
Tornado of Shoppers blew through. On 
either side of the sign, two tall, deep 
cabinets held only a few sandals 
teetering from shelves. Unfortunately, 
the department held no Barry.

   A couple of salespeople were picking 
their way through piles and piles and 
piles of shoes. Their probing gait, as 
they sorted and boxed footwear, reminded 
me of beachcombers'. Another salesperson 
was frowning at the only open cash 
register. I held the guitar high as I 
wended my way toward her, dodging picked-
over pumps, boots, sandals, slippers, and 
loafers, all of which lay higgledy-
piggledy across the floor. Perhaps Barry 
had been here, and given the saleslady 
our check. Or, following his usual style, 
maybe he'd written another note about 
where to go for payment. If this was 
going to be like the hunt for the psych 
classnotes, it was going to be a very 
long night.

   "Excuse me, but have you seen Barry 
Dean, the mall manager?"

   I asked politely.

   The clerk gently closed the cash 
register and gave me a sympathetic look. 
"I sure haven't. Sorry."

   "I was the caterer for the Elite 
Shoppers party," I attempted again, still 
hopeful. "I'm just trying to get our 
final check. Could he have left a note 
for me?"

   She gestured to the beachcombers. 
"They might know. They've been working 
here longer than I have."

   I thanked her and looked around. To 
avoid the mountains of shoes, I decided 
to backtrack to the edge of the 
department, then make a straight shot 
past the cabinets to the workers. Another 
overhead announcement reminded customers 
that the store was closed, and that all 
salespeople needed to check out 
immediately.

   So: I hurried. Fearful that I'd miss 
talking to the sorting salespeople, I 
lofted the guitar and began to pick my 
way around the piles of shoes. Ignorant 
of my presence, the workers called to 
each other, something about the cleaning 
crew, and just finishing this last bit. I 
glanced back at the cash register. The 
helpful saleslady was already walking 
toward the escalator.

   "Crap, crap, crap," I muttered, as I 
teetered at the edge of a pile of leather 
pumps with cutout designs around the 
toes. When I began to lose my balance, I 
overcompensated by yanking the guitar 
sideways. I wobbled over the shoes and 
staggered like a drunk. When I tried to 
get a foothold, I reeled forward, let go 
of the guitar, and fell onto the shoes.

   My head hit the side of the cabinet 
hard. The low doors swung open, and I saw 
stars. I can't believe this is happening 
again, I thought, as I lay on the pile of 
shoes. This is the third time I've fallen 
down today!

   The overhead lights in the department 
began to click out in a methodical 
manner. I groaned and turned over. The 
salespeople had vacated the department. 
No help was forthcoming. I registered 
another groan nearby.

   It was not my voice. Fear snaked up my 
back. I peered around.

   The open cabinet doors had dislodged a 
stash of shoes and a mannequin. Could the 
frenzied shoppers have pulled down a 
mannequin?

   I was startled by another groan. It 
came from the mannequin, which had on 
black dress shoes and black socks.

   The shoe with a sock was attached to a 
leg, and then there was another shoe, and 
another leg. . .

   Oh, Lord.

   The legs were attached to a torso. To 
a body. A still warm, unmoving body.

   Fighting off nausea, I pawed 
frantically over the shoes. Didn't I 
recognize those striped tuxedo pants, 
those shiny black shoes? Please, God, no, 
I prayed, as I ignored my pain and 
burrowed through pumps with cutout toes, 
sandals, loafers, and platform shoes, to 
pullout this. . . person, who was 

groaning. This. . . person who was 
clearly not: supposed to be here.

   Finally I got to the body's face. It 
was twisted to one side. The body was 
Barry Dean's.

   A pulse, I told myself, as I groped. 
It was faint. Weak. With some effort, I 
managed to turn Barry partway onto his 
side. He groaned again, but kept his eyes 
closed.

   There was a knife in his stomach. 
Blood poured onto the scattered shoes and 
beige rug.

   "Barry!" Was I yelling? It came out as 
a croak. "Barry! What happened to you?"

   The air behind me swished. I stiffened 
and tried to scramble off the shoes. A 
warning voice echoed inside my head. What 
was - ?

   Swoosh. I grabbed for my pocket, for 
my cell phone. Crack. Something struck my 
head, very hard. Everything faded to 
darkness, but not before I could ask the 
question that had haunted me since I 
reached Westside Mall, an eternity ago.

   What the hell was going on?

-6-
   From the distant reaches of my 
cerebral cortex, I heard Marla's voice. 
You should have stayed in bed. Then her 
reproving voice morphed into Julian's. 
You need to peel the potatoes. Was he 
making potato appetizers? Wait, I was 
lying on the potatoes. Is that what 
Julian was calling to me about?

   Why couldn't I move?

   I tried to wiggle my arms and legs. My 
head throbbed. Every effort at motion 
brought stabs of pain. I opened one eye 
to get a look at the hard, bumpy potatoes 
on which I appeared to be lying.

   Not potatoes. Shoes.

   "Julian," I mouthed.

   "Help him."

   Hey, Goldy! Julian cried, much closer 
now. How did your. . . What happened to . 
. . I can't . . . He tried to move me off 
the shoes. Then he cried out. I 
registered him stumbling toward Barry. A 
second later, a woman's scream split the 
air.

   Suddenly, a rumbly voice, one I didn't 
recognize, spoke sharply. Julian 
protested. I mustered up strength to inch 
forward, but couldn't go far. 
Unconsciousness claimed me the way 
bullies used to push me down the school 
slide - before I was ready.

   A scent assaulted my nose. I jerked 
upward. My brain seemed to be cracking, 
splintering like glass. The stink of 
ammonia again hit my nostrils and I 
yelped. Something bad had happened, was 
happening, was about to happen again. 
What? Why?

   "Mrs. Schulz," came the deep, 
unfamiliar voice, much closer than 
before. "Wake up. We've called the medics 
and the police. They're on their way."

   A large, rough-skinned hand grabbed my 
wrist. The same powerful hand pressed my 
wrist veins. For a pulse? When I tried to 
twist my neck to see who was talking, 
nausea steam rolled over me.

   "Julian," I moaned. "Where's Julian?" 
I opened my eyes.

   A wide, pasty male face loomed in 
front of mine. The man was wearing a 
security guard uniform. "Just don't worry 
about your guy Julian," his slanted mouth 
announced. "We've got him. He's on the 
other side of - "

   "But - " I struggled to remember what 
had brought me to this pile of shoes. A 
shaft of memory intruded. "Where's . . . 
Barry?" I struggled upward. I was half 
sitting, half lying on the bed of shoes. 
Barry had been right over. . . there.

   And then I saw him. A silver knife 
handle protruded from his stomach. His 
head lay at an impossible angle. His 
hands were limp. He, too, lay on the pile 
of shoes. Blood had drenched the leather 
and pooled on the carpet. He wasn't 
groaning anymore.

   I couldn't look at the blade's silver 
handle. Or at the blood. Oh, please, no. 
Tears welled up in my eyes. And all I 
could think was: That’s one of my new 
knives.

   Loud voices, heavy footsteps, and more 
clammy hands feeling for my pulse 
signaled the arrival of cops and medics. 
An eternity had passed since the pasty-
faced man had waved an ampule of ammonia 
under my nose. Now a second dose of stink 
smacked my nostrils. Was I seeing two 
fellows in white uniforms, or was I 
seeing double?

   "Mrs. Schulz," said one of the white 
uniforms, "your husband is here." He 
reached behind my head and began touching 
it. When his fingers pressed onto an 
unexpectedly painful spot, I gasped.

   "How about if you don't poke me with 
an ice pick?" I squealed. I was vaguely 
aware of not being very nice.

   "Mrs. Schulz," said the other uniform. 
There were two of them. This second 
medic's soothing voice was a tad higher 
than his comrade's. "Please cooperate."

   Now the first medic probed my neck. 
"Does it feel as if anything is broken?" 
I tried to shake my head, which was a 
mistake. When I whispered no, he said, 
"Your husband will meet you at the 
sheriff's department. We're taking you to 
the hospital. OK?"

   "No, not OK." My voice sounded like 
razor blades. "I need to go with my 
husband. Please, let me be with Tom."

   With stubborn resolve, I pulled myself 
to my knees. The medics grabbed my arms. 
I stood up, wobbled, and would have 
fallen if the two of them had not 
tightened their grip. "Thanks. Really, I 
just need to go with my family. Now, 
please."

   The EMS fellows murmured that I could 
not. They helped me off the shoe mountain 
and onto the solid floor of Prince & 
Grogan. Then they declared that the 
coroner was on his way, and I could not 
talk to anyone until I'd gone to the 
hospital, and then to the Furman County 
Sheriff's Department. This did not sound 
right, but my head was too fuzzy to pull 
up the legalities of the situation. 
Especially since I did not know what that 
situation was, exactly.

   Barry must be dead, I thought, and 
fought back tears. The department store 
had an eerie, darkened look. As the 
medics led me toward an exit, I squinted 
and tried to make things out. Several 
salespeople - at least, they looked like 
salespeople - sat in chairs dispersed 
around the floor. Each one was talking to 
a uniformed cop who either knelt or sat 
nearby, notebook in hand. Finally I 
spotted Julian. He was slumped in a chair 
in the men's shoe department. Three cops 
clustered around him. All looked grim.

   Then I saw Tom. A sob convulsed my 
body. My husband's somber expression 
spoke of something else I couldn't face.

   Despair. "Tom!" I cried. "Come with 
me!"

   He brought a finger to his lips and 
shook his head. Black spots clouded my 
vision as I stumbled up the ambulance 
steps. One medic got behind the wheel and 
the other insisted I lie down - but not 
before I'd registered a dark, seated 
presence behind the stretcher.

   "Please," I said as I tried to focus 
on the ambulance ceiling instead of my 
pain, "what happened to Barry?"

   There was a silence. Then, "That's 
what you need to tell us," announced the 
man behind the stretcher.

   Overhead, a light came on. A headache 
gripped my skull. I blinked and clung to 
the side of the stretcher as the 
ambulance began to move. I said, "I don't 
understand. Who are you?"

   "Did you kill Barry Dean?" asked the 
voice. More pain stabbed the back of my 
head as I jerked around. The dark 
presence was a bulky man in a slate-gray 
suit. He had salt-and-pepper hair and a 
ruddy face. His dark eyes locked on to 
mine.

   "No, of course I didn't!" I protested, 
astonished. "Barry was my friend. He was 
an old friend," I added weakly, as black 
clouds again loomed behind my eyes. "And 
whatever happened to my Miranda rights?"

   The cop wrote something in a notebook, 
then frowned at his pen. Finally he 
looked up and introduced himself. He was 
Detective Sawyer. "How about your 
assistant, Julian Teller?" Detective 
Sawyer asked. "Did he kill Dean?"

   "Look, Detective, neither of us 
stabbed Barry Dean. Julian is the 
kindest, most helpful - "

   "How does your head feel?" Detective 
Sawyer interrupted. The ambulance swayed 
as it pelted forward. Belatedly, I 
registered the siren. It felt as if it, 
too, was right behind my eyes.

   "My head hurts," I replied. "And 
you're making it worse, Detective Sawyer. 
But listen. . . this is important. . . ."

   The ambulance slowed unexpectedly. I 
turned around and lifted my chin - which 
sent daggers slicing down my neck - and 
peered out at blinking sawhorses. A large 
yellow arrow indicated a detour around 
the dirt mess from the dump truck 
accident.

   "Something important," I tried again 
with the cop. The words eluded me as I 
twisted back to look at him. "Did you 
know that tonight. . . in Prince and 
Grogan? That was the second time today 
that somebody tried to kill Barry. Tried 
to hurt Barry and me. Julian was there, 
too - "

   "When was the first time?" The 
detective looked bored.

   "This afternoon. A truck almost mowed 
us down - " I said urgently. If only he 
understood. . .

   "Julian Teller called in that 
accident," Sawyer announced, unperturbed. 
"He wasn't a victim of it."

   My hands clenched into fists. "Will 
you shut up? Will you let me explain?"

   "When did you go into Prince and 
Grogan tonight?"

   "Do you know who my husband is?"

   "Yes indeedy. When did you enter 
Prince and Grogan?"

   I struggled to think back. When did I 
enter the department store? I'd picked up 
Arch's guitar at Westside Music, but that 
had taken longer than I'd expected.

   "Oh, my God, the guitar!" I cried. 
"Where is it?"

   "You were hit with it, Mrs. Schulz. It 
was badly dented, and now it's being held 
by the police to be checked for prints. 
Please try to think when you entered the 
store."

   That new guitar was dented? It was 
being held by the police? What was I 
supposed to give Arch for his birthday? 
My head ached.

   What was the detective's question? Oh, 
yes, when had I entered the department 
store. Let's see. After leaving the music 
store, I'd scuttled into P & G and made 
my way through the departments looking 
for Barry. . . .

   "I went into Prince and Grogan around 
five to nine, maybe a little after, I'm 
pretty sure - "

   "And you discovered Dean when?"

   Effort at thought worsened my 
headache. "Around nine, I guess, but - "

   "Can you explain why we got a nine-
one-one call, at exactly nine o'clock, 
with someone saying Dean was dead? Which 
would be just as you came into the 
store?”

   "Nine o'clock? Well, maybe I'm wrong 
about those times. But you see, when I 
found Barry, he wasn't dead. . . he was 
groaning. Then someone hit me, maybe 
because they wanted to finish Barry off - 
" Something was bothering me. What? I 
tried to review Sawyer's last set of 
questions. "Am I, uh, a suspect in this, 
Detective? Because I sure don't like your 
tone of voice. Not to mention that you 
seem to have forgotten my Miranda 
rights?"

   This, too, he ignored. "Was Julian 
Teller with you at that time? When you 
entered the store?"

   At five to nine..? I wondered fuzzily. 
Why would he do that..? This detective 

was being too damn aggressive, I thought 
angrily. I lay still and prayed Lord, 
help me. Over and over. It helped.

   "Know what?" I murmured after a few 
minutes. "I have a head injury. And I 
know a bit about your line of work, 
Detective Sawyer. Law enforcement isn't 
supposed to question someone with a fresh 
head injury and no hint of Miranda. So 
I'm just going to wait." My head spun. I 
tried to clear it, but my brain was 
fogged in. "I'm not going to answer a 
single one of your questions. And since 
I'm not under arrest, I'm going to call 
my lawyer at the hospital."

   Detective Sawyer expelled breath and 
slapped his notebook closed. Actually, I 
desperately wanted to call Tom. And if he 
for some reason couldn't advise me, I 
would have to call Marla, not a lawyer. 
My own lawyer was pretty good at getting 
The Jerk to pay child support, but that 
was it. Marla, on the other hand, had the 
inside scoop on the moneyed and powerful 
in Denver, and her circle of 
acquaintances would surely yield 
connections to some of Denver's hotshot 
criminal defense attorneys. On the other 
hand, when she heard the department was 
trying to nail me, or Julian, or both of 
us, for murder, I would have to make my 
next call to her cardiologist.

   The ambulance pulled to a stop. What 
had felt like an hour in the vehicle had 
only been a few minutes, as Southwest 
Hospital was near Westside Mall.

   I couldn't read the clock inside the 
Emergency Room, no matter how hard I 
tried. A headache raged in my skull like 
a thunderstorm, complete with flashes of 
lightning. How long had I been out? I did 
not know. What I did know was that every 
muscle and bone in my body cried out with 
pain and fatigue. I cursed my 
helplessness. I balked when a nurse 
poked, prodded, and questioned me. While 
waiting for the doctor, I disobeyed 
orders to stay put. Instead, I hobbled 
out to the reception area and called 
Tom's cell. No answer. Fearful the nurse 
would come out and claim me, I put in a 
call to Marla.

   There was no answer at her home. I 
tried her cellular. "You're not going to 
believe - " I began.

   "Oh, yes I am!" Her dear, husky voice 
crackled. "I just talked to Julian. I'm 
on my way to the department. The sheriffs 
department."

   I held the phone away from my ear. 
"I'm at the hospital - "

   "What?" she squawked.

   "I need you to help Julian - "

   "What do you think I'm doing? I've got 
an associate of Steve Hulsey's on his way 
to the department to meet Julian. Hulsey 
himself is coming to help you."

   I shuddered. "No-Holds-Barred Hulsey?" 
The Denver papers were invariably filled 
with tales of criminal defense lawyer 
Steven Hulsey, of Hulsey, Jones, Macauley 
& Wilson. Recently, Hulsey had defended a 
drug dealer who'd murdered a rival in 
front of three witnesses, all of whom, 
apparently, had serious vision problems. 

   "That's the one," Marla said proudly. 
"Did you hear how he got Stafford 
Roosevelt off? It was in the papers last 
year. Big Bucks Roosevelt, serial rapist, 
supposedly. But we'll never know, since 
Hulsey got him off on a technicality. And 
just last month, the associate who's 
coming down to help Julian, Cleve 
Jackson, convinced a jury not to convict 
a fellow lawyer of bank fraud."

   "Yes," I said weakly, "I heard about 
that one." In the fraud case, Cleve 
Jackson had repeatedly asserted that the 
police had mishandled crucial evidence. 
For their part, Tom and the department 
despised any and all from Hulsey's 
office.

   "I'm paying the legal bills, don't 
worry," Marla yelled. "I am so pissed 
off. And I can't believe what Julian . . 
.!" Her voice cracked, disappeared, came 
back. "He didn't even call me until the 
cops had questioned him for an hour, and 
now he's consented to a damn polygraph! 
Julian said he didn't do anything! He 
wants to prove it with a lie detector 
test! Cleve Jackson should already be 
there. Julian should wait - "

   "Listen," I said desperately as the 
nurse signaled that the ER doc was ready 
to see me. "I need to go . . ."

   Marla grumbled words unfit for Sunday 
school, declared that she'd bring Julian 
back to her place when the cops and Cleve 
Jackson had finished with him, and signed 
off.

   I endured the next hour in as good a 
humor as possible. Detective Sawyer 
hovered doggedly at the edge of my 
vision. When the ER doc said it looked as 
if I had a mild concussion, I asked to 
see my husband. Detective Sawyer, 
looming, announced grimly that Tom had 
gone down to the department and would 
meet me there.

   Sometime after midnight, the ambulance 
that had brought me to the hospital from 
Westside Mall arrived at the Furman 
County Sheriff's Department. I had been 
up since dawn, I had escaped a truck 
accident, I had catered an event, I'd 
found my client dead, I'd been whacked on 
the head, I'd awakened in pain. And now, 
it seemed, I was in the thick of a 
criminal investigation. I was beyond 
exhausted, beyond wounded and bewildered. 
I was numb.

   Mutely, I allowed myself to be 
escorted to one of the interrogation 
rooms. It was graced with a single table 
and four chairs, one of which held 
Detective Sawyer. The instant I entered 
the room, Sawyer flipped open his 
notebook.

   A microphone stood like a wired totem 
in the middle of the table. The right-
hand wall boasted a one-way mirror. 
Unlike what you see in movies, Tom had 
told me, there was no one actually behind 
the one-way glass, no sharp-eyed team 
gauging my reactions, no sharp-tongued 
cop asserting that I'd just told a basket 
of lies. According to Tom, an unmanned 
videocamera recorded the whole interview. 
I hugged myself. More than the cop's 
notebook or the microphone, the image of 
that solitary camera rolling tape made me 
dizzy.

   A tall, wide-bodied man swept in. I 
recognized Steve Hulsey from his TV 
interviews. The nightly talk shows loved 
having him on, as he put it, "to tell 
people the inside story of law 
enforcement." Hulsey had a dark face 
featuring deeply grooved cheeks and thick 
dark eyebrows that sprouted like sails 
over shrewd, assessing eyes. He'd slicked 
his black hair into place with a 
glistening substance that made the 
strands resemble porcupine quills. His 
hastily donned power suit, a severe 
charcoal pin-striped silk, was only 
slightly rumpled. His voice rumbled like 
an approaching storm.

   "I'd like this woman to step into the 
hall, please," he announced to the two 
detectives. It was not a request. It was 
a command. The detectives nodded and I 
walked slowly into the hall.

   The famous attorney introduced 
himself, then crushed my hand when he 
shook it. In somber tones, Hulsey advised 
me to wait after each question from the 
detectives. I was not to answer a single 
query until he gave me permission. If he 
didn't like the way things were going, he 
would say so. Meanwhile, if he objected 
to anything, I was to keep my mouth shut. 
When I begged him for news of Julian, his 
face turned even more formidable. We 
would have to talk about that later, he 
concluded, and turned back to the 
interrogation room door.

   "What about my husband?" I asked. 
"Have you talked to Tom?"

   "Tom Schulz is off this case. His 
family members are involved."

   Hulsey's voice came out like a growl. 
"Your son is at your house. A friend is 
with him. Listen to me, Mrs. Schulz. If 
I'm going to help you, I need you not to 
worry about anybody but yourself. We need 
to focus on getting you out of this."

   "I just. . . OK, look," I said with 
sudden clarity. "Our first problem is 
with the detective in there, a creep 
named Sawyer. He was obnoxious in the 
ambulance and didn't Mirandize me - "

   "A detective questioned you before you 
were examined by a doctor?" From down the 
hall, an authoritative-looking, red-
haired man with a clipboard strode 
rapidly toward us. Seeing him, Hulsey 
lifted his chin and sucked in his breath, 
like the wolf about to blow down a little 
pig's house. Then he turned back to me. 
His beetlelike eyes bored into mine. 
Forget lie detectors; this guy was the 
genuine article. "A policeman asked you 
questions before or after you were seen 
in the ER?"

   "Uh, before. I told him I wouldn't 
answer his questions."

   "Mrs. Schulz," said Hulsey. His voice 
melted to chocolate, which scared me even 
more. "Do not fret about Sawyer. I am 
here. They are going to fret about us. 
Are we clear on this?"

   Whether from fatigue, physical pain, 
or stress, I did not know, but I suddenly 
laughed and kept laughing. Were we clear? 
I said, "You bet. Ice-crystal clear. 
High-country spring-water clear." I was 
grinning like a madwoman, but Hulsey 
ignored me. No doubt he'd seen his share 
of lunatics.

   The clipboard-toter passed us and 
opened the door to the interrogation 
room. Hulsey and I followed.

   "Gentlemen," declared Hulsey, "my 
client is fatigued and injured. So let's 
make this quick, OK? And," he said with 
grim finality, "there will be no 
polygraph."

   Sawyer tapped his open notebook and 
gave us a blank look. The other fellow, 
whose few strands of red hair had been 
pulled across his balding head, did not 
acknowledge Hulsey's request, but merely 
gave a brusque nod. He informed us he was 
Detective Collins and his associate was 
Detective Sawyer, and that this interview 
was being recorded.

   I stated my name and address into the 
microphone, glanced nervously at the 
mirrored glass hiding the videocamera, 
and tucked my cold, trembling hands 
inside the big pocket of my apron.

   Come to think of it, why was I still 
wearing the apron? I felt for my cell 
phone: still there. The note from Barry: 
also still there. But . . . what in the 
world was the small plastic jar my right 
hand suddenly closed over? I swallowed 
hard and cautiously moved the jar lower 
into my pocket, as deep as it would go. 
Unless I was very much mistaken, I was 
gripping a prescription bottle full of 
pills. Where had it come from?

   Unobtrusively, I pulled out my hand 
and placed it in my lap. There was no way 
I was going to show these cops what I'd 
just discovered, thank you very much. 
Every now and then, it's important to be 
smart. Which is what I wish I had been 
while hunting for Barry Dean in the 
Prince & Grogan shoe department . . . at 
least to the extent of jumping up and 
screaming for help when I'd first found 
Barry in the cabinet.

   "Take us back," droned Detective 
Collins. "Begin with the jewelry party. 
That was the last time you saw Mr. Dean 
alive, yes?"

   "Yes." Barry'd been quite visible at 
the party, I told them. There were 
security tapes, as well as a professional 
videotape, of the event. I told them the 
very last time I'd seen Barry alive had 
been toward the end of the event. No, I 
had not actually seen him leave. I told 
them about Barry's uncharacteristic wine-
guzzling. I started to describe the 
forcible expulsion of Teddy Fury, and 
Barry's heated argument with Liz Fury and 
Julian, but I hadn't even completed three 
sentences before Hulsey shook his head.

   Had I received my check, the cops 
wanted to know. Barry had the final 
payment, I replied, which was our agreed-
in-advance gratuity. "Is that a set 
amount?" Collins asked.

   "It's usually twenty percent of the 
bill. If things go well and the client is 
feeling generous, sometimes we'll receive 
up to thirty percent. But Barry left 
without giving us anything, which I was 
certain was an oversight - "

   "We found a check to your firm in his 
pocket. Sorry, we need to keep it for a 
while. Why were you certain this was an 
oversight?"

   "Barry and I. . . were old friends."

   "How were you old friends?"

   Hulsey glared at me in warning.

   "We went to C.U. together," I answered 
tentatively. What could be incriminating 
about that? "He studied architecture. I 
was a psychology major. He sat next to me 
in a psych class, shared his notes with 
me, and asked me out for coffee. We drank 

a lot of cappuccino together. He called 
me his coffee buddy." Collins raised an 
eyebrow. "We were not romantically 
involved. Barry told me I shouldn't marry 
my first husband, and he turned out to be 
right."

   "How about lately?" asked Collins, 
uninterested in the criminal doings of 
Doctor John Richard Korman, my ex. "Maybe 
you weren't involved with Dean in school, 
but lately, did things change?"

   "Don't be ridiculous." Both cops gave 
me practiced blank expressions. "No, 
Detectives, we were not ever romantically 
involved. Never."

   "Why did Barry Dean hire an old 
college friend to do mall catering?"

   "Because a mutual friend, Ellie 
McNeely, recommended me. Plus, I think he 
might have seen my picture in the paper."

   "Which picture was that? The one from 
a couple of years ago, when you found 
another body in Prince and Grogan?"

   "No," I said stiffly. "It was from 
this February, when I finished a job in 
Aspen Meadow. Catering for the Hydes. 
Heard of them?"

   Collins's lips twitched in a 
distinctly ghoulish grin. "You mean," he 
asked, "that photo in the Suburban 
section, showing you all wet? After you 
fell into the moat at Hyde Castle?"

   "I didn't fall into the moat, I jumped 
into it. And that was to get away from 
someone who was chasing me."

   Hulsey cleared his throat. His eyes 
drilled into me: SHUT. UP.

   Collins shifted in his chair. "But you 
didn't get away from someone who hit you 
with a guitar. Was that because tonight, 
you recognized the person who was chasing 
you?"

    "Nobody was chasing me, that I know 
of. I didn't even hear the person come up 
behind me. If I had, I might have avoided 
getting whacked with a guitar."

   "Was that person Julian Teller?"

   "No."

   Collins shook his head disbelievingly. 
"The catered event ended: You and Julian 
Teller made trips to take your equipment 
back to your van, yes?"

   "Yes. And then I came back and Julian 
- who is one of my assistants - told me . 
. ." I could feel my anger rising. Why 
had they asked if Julian had hit me? 
"Actually, Julian handed me a note that 
Barry had given one of the musicians. It 
said he - Barry - had my gratuity for 
me."

   There was a silence. "We need to see 
that note," decreed Sawyer.

   I fished into my apron pocket, careful 
not to disturb the prescription bottle 
tucked there, then pulled out the 
crumpled note and slapped it on the 
table. So much for fingerprints, I 
thought belatedly.

   Hulsey asked permission to see the 
note and to have a photocopy made as soon 
as possible. The cops nodded yes. My 
lawyer bent over the paper, pulled out a 
tiny brushed-gold notebook, and wrote in 
it. The cops announced that they were 

going to have the handwriting analyzed. 
Inwardly, I groaned. Did Barry's script 
look like Julian's?

   Collins gave me a puzzled look. "I 
have your check, and a tip for you? You 
called it a gratuity."

   My frustration clouded to confusion. A 
tip for you. A tip like a police tip? And 
earlier, after the truck accident: Goldy, 
could we have our little chat later; at 
the party?

   "I did think the check was our 
gratuity. Barry had wanted to talk to me. 
Earlier in the day, he had said he wanted 
to have a chat."

   "Wanted to chat with you about what, 
exactly?" Collins rasped.

   "Excuse me." Steve Hulsey's deep 
rumble made me jump. "I won't allow my 
client to be taken out in a boat to go 
fishing with you guys. Finish this up."

   Collins's glum expression did not 
change. "So you went to the Prince and 
Grogan shoe department, in search of this 
tip. Any idea why he wanted to meet you 
in Shoes?"

   "I'm warning you again, Detective," 
interjected Hulsey, who moved impatiently 
in his chair. "Fish again, and I'm 
reeling in the line."

   "Mrs. Schulz," said Collins, 
unperturbed and persistent. "After you 
received this note, did you go directly 
to Prince and Grogan to rendezvous with 
Mr. Dean?"

   I had never realized how ugly the word 
rendezvous could sound. "No. I already 
told you, I had to pick up my son's 
guitar at Westside Music. That took," I 
added, before he could ask, "about five, 
ten minutes at most. After I picked up 
the guitar, I headed into Prince and 
Grogan, again, as I told you before. The 
store was closing and people were 
cleaning up, counting the contents of 
cash registers, like that."

   "Who knew you had to get the guitar 
first?"

   "Well, my two assistants. Liz Fury had 
asked to take off early, because her son 
had been forced out of the mall, as I 
told you. She wanted to find him." 
Another glare from Hulsey stopped me from 
elaborating. "And of course Julian Teller 
knew I had to go back to the music store. 
He stayed in the lounge and promised to 
finish packing up. He's very good that 
way. Hardworking. Caring. And honest," I 
added, pointedly.

   "Then what?"

   "Well, if you read the note, you'll 
see Barry was expecting me about half 
past eight. But it was quarter to nine by 
the time I received his message, and I 
still had to pick up the guitar for my 
son's birthday." I waited for them to ask 
me how old Arch was or when his birthday 
was, but they were silent. "So I was 
running late when I arrived in Shoes. 
Barry wasn't there. I asked the cash 
register lady if she'd seen him. She 
hadn't, so I thought I'd try the two 
salespeople who were cleaning up. But I 
slipped on the shoes - "

   "You slipped on them," commented 
Sawyer, ever the skeptic. "Yes. I was 
carrying the guitar, and it was heavy, 
and the women had dumped the shoes in 
piles allover the place. Leather is 
slippery," I said fiercely, giving them a 
glare of my own. "I stumbled, fell, and 
hit one of those big cabinets. One of the 
doors came open, and I saw what I thought 
was a mannequin in a tuxedo, but. . . it 
groaned. I . . . It was Barry. I tried to 
pull him out, and he groaned again, and 
then I saw all the blood. I took his 
pulse. It was weak. And then I guess I 
was going to do a compression - "

   "You didn't call for help?" Sawyer 
again.

   I took a shaky breath. After a moment, 
I said, "No. I didn't. I should have, in 
retrospect. But my theory now is that 
whoever was trying to kill him was right 
behind the cabinet, waiting to finish the 
job. As soon as the salespeople left, 
after I'd pulled Barry out of the cabinet 
and checked for his pulse, the killer 
whacked me with the guitar. He or she 
wanted to get me out of the way and 
finish the job - "

   Collins held up a hand, then spoke 
slowly. "Did you see who hit you?"

   "No, I didn't see a thing. I didn't 
hear anybody's voice, either. One minute 
I had Barry's wrist in my hand, the next 
my head was smashed and I saw nothing but 
black. After a bit, I heard Julian 
calling me, and someone waved ammonia in 
my face. Then you guys showed up, and I 
was carted to the hospital. And now we're 
here."

   Collins said, "Did you see the weapon 
used to kill Barry Dean?" There was a 
silence. I had not told, Hulsey about 
this; now I wondered what in the world to 
say. The last thing I wanted to do was 
implicate Julian, Liz, or myself any 
further. But refusing to answer would 
look worse. And lying. . . what would 
that do?

   "Yes," I said quietly. "I saw it. It 
was. . . one of my knives. From a new set 
I bought recently."

   Collins opened his mouth to ask 
another question, but Steve Hutsey was 
too quick for him.

   "That does it, gentlemen. Thank you." 
He stood and motioned for me to do the 
same. I got to my feet too quickly and 
swayed, suddenly dizzy. I blinked, saw my 
chair, and grabbed the metal back.

   "Mrs. Schulz, please don't leave 
town," intoned Sawyer, as he slapped his 
notebook closed. My kick-ass lawyer held 
the door open for me and I walked 
through.

   "I need you to visit my office," 
Hulsey told me. "Will tomorrow morning 
work?" His office, as it turned out, was 
half a mile from Westside Mall. What 
catered event did I have the next day, or 
rather, that very day, since it was now 
well past midnight? My beaten-up, woozy 
mind drew a blank. When do you need me 
there? I asked Hulsey. Ten A.M. sharp, 
Hulsey replied. And in the meantime, talk 
to no one.

   Tom, oh dear God, Tom, was waiting for 
me on a plastic chair in the lobby. He 
walked toward me swiftly, arms 
outstretched. Hulsey vanished.

   Enfolded in my husband's arms, my body 
shook uncontrollably. I swallowed and 
tried to pull myself together. There was 
no way I was going to fall apart in the 
lobby of the sheriffs department.

   "Let's go," Tom whispered. He gently 
helped me into his Chrysler, and murmured 
that he'd arrange for my van to be 
brought back to the house early the next 
morning. I leaned my head back and 
inhaled the comforting scent of Tom's 
car. I wanted so badly to be in bed, to 
be asleep. But something was gnawing at 
me.

   "Where's Marla?" I asked as Tom 
started the engine. "Did she and Julian 
take both of their cars back to her house 
in Aspen Meadow? Or did he go back to 
Boulder?"

   Tom let the engine idle, his hands on 
the steering wheel. Illuminated by the 
lot's pink streetlights, his face was 
luminescent. Ominous. "Do you know how 
many cups of coffee Julian drank today? 
Yesterday, that is. Monday. While he was 
working with you."

   "What?"

   "Miss G., it's a simple question."

   "I don't understand. . ."

   "Just think. How many cups?"

   I took a deep breath. "OK. He 
mentioned he'd had two four-shot lattes 
before he arrived. He brought two more, 
one for Liz and one for me." I tried to 
dive back into the muck of the day's 
events. "Liz didn't want hers, so. . . I 
think Julian drank it. Then we made 
coffee in the kitchen, and he had dinner 
with Liz, so it's probably safe to say he 
had about . . . oh, the equivalent of 
fifteen or sixteen cups of coffee over 
the course of the day. Why?"

   Tom pressed his lips into a thin line 
and shook his head. Then he clasped my 
hands in his. "Julian drank a ton of 
caffeine. Then he found you in the 
department store, unconscious. He also 
found Barry, with your knife in him. 
Julian's a good kid, he was terrified, he 
tried to pull the knife out of Barry 
Dean. Then the one security cop on duty 
at Prince and Grogan spotted him, and 
yelled at him to back off. Julian freaked 
out, and when the cops heard he'd had his 
hands on the knife, they said he had to 
come in for questioning. When they 
brought him into the department, he 
didn't wait for a lawyer. He insisted on 
submitting to the polygraph. To prove his 
innocence."

   My own voice felt as brittle as 
cracking ice. "What are you telling me?"

   "Too much caffeine can screw up a 
polygraph, Miss G. Julian was found with 
his hand on the murder weapon. Just as 
damning, he has no alibi for the time he 
was loading your van by himself, which 
was when you were picking up Arch's 
guitar. When Julian took the lie detector 
test, he flunked it."

   "No."

   Tom squeezed my hands harder. "Goldy, 
Julian's been arrested for murder."

-7-
   We made it up the interstate in 
silence. The going was slow, as a light 
snow was falling. At home, our hall clock 
donged lightly for half past one. I 
checked our pets - Jake the bloodhound 
and Scout the cat - who were slumbering 
peacefully in their separate housing 
area. Then I stumbled upstairs. I creaked 
open Arch's door. He was snoring. So was 
his pal, Todd Druckman. Just recently, 
Arch had outgrown his bunk bed, so Todd 
was curled inside a sleeping bag on the 
floor.

   With a husband in law enforcement and 
an ex-husband behind bars, our little 

family had dealt with criminal activity 
more than most. Still, I was worried 
about how Arch would deal with the arrest 
of Julian, our cherished family friend. I 
also wondered if heart-attack-prone Marla 
would stay calm. Several years ago, in a 

bizarre discovery of adoption documents, 
we'd learned that Julian's birth mother 
had been Marla's dead sister. My old 
friend had passionately embraced the role 
of being Julian's aunt. Would she be able 
to cope with his arrest?

  Would I?

   I brushed my teeth, shucked my 
clothes, and pulled on pajamas. I fell 
into bed, certain I'd start fretting and 
never fall asleep.

   But I did sleep, so soundly that the 
creep of daylight into the bedroom, the 
early shriek of crows, the drone of 
traffic from Aspen Meadow's Main Street - 
not one of these registered. At nine-
thirty, Tom tiptoed in to wake me.

   He sat on the edge of our bed and 
asked me how I was feeling. I realized I 
had a headache, a shoulder ache, and 
nausea. I assured him I felt fine.

   "I took Arch and Todd to school. Oh, 
and I canceled you out of that wedding 
reception this afternoon," he announced 
matter-of-factiy. "Liz said she can 
handle it. She came over for the food and 
supplies, and said she'd contact some of 
her old staff to help. She feels really 
bad about Julian," he added. "She's going 
to call you later."

   Slowly, groggily, I sat up. The room 
whirled. "You didn't need to cancel me 
out of the reception."

   "You've got a slight concussion and 
need to take it a bit easy. Also, you 
have Steve Hulsey to meet with today. His 
secretary called and said he needs to 
change your appointment from ten to half 
past two - "

   "How's Julian?" I asked, because I 
needed to. The fact of his arrest scalded 
my nerves. "When can I see him? Can he 
take the polygraph again?"

   "It's probably not a good idea for you 
to see him. He'll be advised of charges 
today. And it looks as if he can take the 
polygraph again on Thursday." Tom's tone 
was resigned. "And there's something 
else. . . . I heard an unconfirmed report 
that someone witnessed Julian driving the 
truck that tried to hit you and Barry."

   "Baloney!" I cried, indignant. "Who 
would tell such a lie?"

   "Miss G., please. I'm not going to 
tell you things if you're going to go off 
the deep end."

   I gnawed the inside of my cheek. "Did 
you tell Arch what happened?"

   "He's more worried about you, if you 
want to know the truth."

   "Arch said he was worried about me? I 
don't believe it."

   "I promised him that Julian would be 
out as soon as we got this all 
straightened out." Tom sighed. "Arch said 
if you got hit on the head with the 
seven-hundred-dollar Epiphone guitar, you 
must be hurt pretty bad."

   "And I'm sure he asked how badly the 
guitar was damaged, right?"

   Tom chuckled. "Well, yes. But he felt 
guilty, really, that you'd tried to get 
something for him, and then gotten beaned 
with it."

   "Where is the guitar, exactly? As in, 
right this minute."

   Tom shrugged. "Crime lab, probably. 
Being checked for prints, fiber, the 
usual. You probably won't have it until 
well after Arch's birthday. Sorry."

   The morning felt unreal. I was still 
in bed at nine-thirty. I didn't know what 
was going on with Julian, and I wasn't 
racing to a catering assignment.

   Outside, it was still Aspen Meadow in 
April. Our front yard pines, laden with 
new snow, trembled in the cold breeze. 
Thick white clouds chugged through an 
expanse of sky, dollops of meringue on a 
blue plate.

   And Barry Dean was dead. My old coffee 
buddy. I saw his smiling face, heard his 
teasing. This could not be real. And yet 
it was.

   "Come on," said Tom, mustering some 
cheer. "Can you manage a shower on your 
own?" When I nodded, he said, "I'll meet 
you in the kitchen. I'm making you a 
Dutch pancake. Oh, forgot to tell you. 
Two friends of mine from the department 
stopped by real early. I gave them your 
keys, and they brought up your van. I've 
already cleaned all your dishes and 
platters and whatnot."

   "What would I do without you?" I 
murmured.

   Twenty minutes later, after I'd 
managed only two yoga asanas and a quick 
shower, I dug into Tom's warm, light 
Dutch pancake. It dripped with golden 
melted butter and genuine maple syrup 
from Maine. I began to feel a bit more 
optimistic. Tom had also fried an entire 
pound of bacon. The salty crunch of meat 
perfectly complemented the delicate 
pancake. I told him it was the best 
breakfast ever. He beamed.

   "I need to take off," he said. "Do you 
want me to do anything for you? Did they 
give you a prescription for a 
painkiller?"

   "I've got both aspirin and ibuprofen," 
I replied. "But thanks for worrying."

   He donned his jacket but seemed 
reluctant to leave. "Sure you're OK to 
drive to Hulsey's office?"

   "Absolutely." I stood to fire up the 
espresso machine. "I'm going to putter 
around here before stopping at Hulsey's. 
I'll be done in time to pick up Arch at 
lacrosse practice."

   "Can I bring home dinner?"

   "Tom. If you don't let me cook, I'll 
go nuts."

   He kissed me and took off. As the 
house fell silent, I booted my computer, 
popped two aspirin, and pulled myself a 
double shot of rich, dark espresso. 
Because I needed to take care of myself - 
didn't everyone say so? - I topped the 
coffee with a mountainous glob of whipped 
cream.

   And then I thought of Julian, in jail, 
with no espresso and a bunch of criminals 
as his new roommates. Tom was off the 
case. Would Hulsey wait for a new 
polygraph before he moved forward with 
his own team of investigators? Probably 
not. But meanwhile, Julian, with no 
alibi, was stuck in jail. It would take a 
few days for the lab work to come back, 
but trying to pull my knife out of Barry 
meant, of course, that Julian's 
fingerprints were on the murder weapon.

   If I don't help him, who will?

   I swallowed more espresso, then tapped 
computer keys to open a new file: BARRY 
DEAN.

   Tom had told me a hundred times: You 
have to figure out what you know before 
you can concentrate on what you don't 
know.

   I typed in everything I knew about 
Barry. His background at C. U. His deep 
affection for basset hounds. His brief 
work with the Longmont TV show. Business 
school. Marketing. His job managing 
Westside Mall. His status: Most Eligible 
Bachelor. And then I looked down at my 
espresso cup. He loved coffee, I typed 
numbly.

   Both his old classic Mercedes and his 
rarely used BMW racing car had boasted 
leather coffee-compartment caddies that 
fit over the hump between the front 
seats. Dear old Honey the Hound had 
presided over our outings, her mournful 
eyes regarding us from the rear seat. 
When we'd met the previous week, Barry 
had said that Honey had passed away, but 
that he still loved bassets and had just 
gotten a new one. He'd been so full of 
enthusiasm for canines, I'd told him 
about our own hound, Jake. He'd laughed 
and wanted to know more. Did he howl? His 
new dog did.

   Who was taking care of his new dog 
now? The cops? The pound? I veered away 
from that thought and forced myself to 
concentrate.

   Love interests, I typed. Let's see. 
He'd gone out with all kinds of girls at 
school, but wasn't as enthusiastic about 
them as he was about dogs, coffee, or 
cars. I knew he'd been seeing Ellie 
McNeely, and that she had recommended my 
catering company to him. Possibly, he'd 
also been seeing Pam Disharoon. I'd 
suspected he'd been seeing Liz, but 
realized now that their familiarity was 
probably based on Liz's nervousness about 
catering for a fellow who'd barred her 
son from the mall. The rest was a blank.

   Find out what BD was up to with women, 
I typed. Jealousy there?

   My head throbbed and I pulled another 
espresso. Did I dare to take another 
couple of aspirin? No. Tom's words came 
back to me: Did they give you a 
prescription for painkillers? My apron, I 
thought. What was in that prescription 
bottle?

   I sprinted up the stairs. My head felt 
as if I were balancing a pine log on top 
of my cranium. Balancing a large pine 
log. Balancing a large pine log with a 
guy teetering on each end.

   I groped in my apron pocket and pulled 
out a brown bottle from Westside 
Pharmacy. March 22, the tidy label read. 
Rx No. 2880. Dr. Louis Maxwell. Barry 
Dean. Take 1 as needed for headache. 
Vicodin ES tablet.

   How on earth had the bottle gotten 
into my apron pocket? It had to have 
fallen out of Barry's pocket, I reasoned. 
When I scooted forward to check his 
pulse, I must have inadvertently picked 
it up.

   Vicodin was a narcotic painkiller. 
Barry had to have had some monster 
headaches. Was something worrying Barry 
to cause him crippling headaches? I typed 
a new question into the file: What caused 
BD’s headaches?

    OK, let's see . . . there were a few 
more random facts I knew about Barry. 
He'd just bought an older house far out 
Upper Cottonwood Creek, an Austrian-
chalet-style dwelling with gingerbread 
trim à la Hansel and Gretel. A detached 
garage held his cars - I thought he'd 
told me that at one point he'd had three 
vehicles - the old BMW racing car, a new 
white Audi, and the classic Mercedes, 
which had been wrecked, only to be 
replaced by the new Saab. Behind the 
garage, there was a large paved area 
where he kept his pontoon boat. Without 
kids and a wife to support, Barry could 
afford expensive toys.

   I fingered the prescription bottle. 
Would the cops allow me inside Barry's 
house? Probably not. I need to help 
Julian, I thought. I need to find out 
what Barry was up to. I need to discover 
what whoever killed Barry was up to. Back 
in the dark divorce days, I'd become an 
expert at ferreting out incriminating 
evidence. It's important to use your 
talents, right?

   Speaking of John Richard, for better 
or worse, he had been temporarily moved 
to a less crowded jail in Colorado 
Springs. We made the two-and-a-half-hour 
trip on a weekly basis, so Arch could 
visit his father. But at least The Jerk 

would not be in the Furman County lockup 
to hassle or intimidate Julian.

   Julian. My heart ached. He'd been a 
part of our family for only a few years, 
but it felt like forever. He worried 
incessantly about Arch and me. He helped 
Arch with homework and visits to museums; 
he even corrected Arch's drafts of 
English papers, something I was forbidden 
upon pain of death to do. Julian brought 
over his signature chocolate croissants 
whenever he visited. And he always, 
always helped me out at catered events 
when I needed him.

   If I told Tom about Barry's pills, 
he'd make me turn them over to the cops. 
So I was tampering with evidence. But I 
wasn't ready to give up Barry's 
prescription bottle just yet, at least 
not until I ferreted out the reason for 
the painkillers. After frowning at the 
little brown bottle for a minute, I 
wrapped it in plastic, opened the freezer 
side of the walk-in, and stashed it in a 
place I doubted Tom or Arch would ever 
look: a plastic tub half full of frozen 
clarified butter.

   I was going to help Julian, I 
resolved. He possessed a keen 
intelligence, a great willingness to help 
out, a love for our family, and 
unfortunately, a quick temper. And now 
his desire to help others had landed him 
in a load of trouble.

   So, Tom had relieved me of my catering 
assignments for that day. Until I could 
gather more supplies, there was little I 
could do to work on other events for 
later in the week. Meanwhile, my psyche 
needed to cook.

   I washed my hands, tore the leftover 
bacon into bits, then washed my hands 
again. My whisk clicked the side of the 
bowl as I violently beat together a salad 
dressing. Finally, I washed and dried 
head after head of tender baby lettuces.

   Despite my frenzied activity, my mind 
kept circling back to Julian. I'd 
introduced him to Liz, who had introduced 
him to her son Teddy, whose plight had 
touched Julian. His sense of justice had 
propelled him to confront Barry Dean. 
Julian always tried to do the right 
thing. Of course, this had also included 
trying to pull the knife out of Barry's 
stomach.

   I quickly stored all the food. Even if 
Hulsey forbade me, I was going to go down 
to the jail. I was going to demand that 
Julian Teller be released.

   Fat chance of that, I thought. I 
groped again in the freezer, tried to 
avoid the tub of butter (the hidden 
prescription seemed to scream at me), and 
clattered ice cubes into a glass. I 
poured heavy cream into the glass, then 
put that into the freezer while I 
searched the refrigerator side of the 
walk-in for something luscious. Aha-a 
last piece of flourless chocolate cake 
topped with raspberries and strawberries. 
I whipped some more of the cream, ladled 
it on top of the cake, then pulled four 
shots of espresso and poured it into the 
glass over the chilled cream and ice 
cubes. I took a delicate mouthful of the 
chocolate cake, then sipped the creamy 
coffee. The dark, rich chocolate melted 
in my mouth and sent a flash of pleasure 
up my back. Forget aspirin - this was a 
real painkiller! Then I allowed the 
luscious coffee to roll over my tongue. 
My brain felt sharper, no question.

   I frowned at my computer's blank 
screen, then looked outside. The sky was 
turning. The brilliant white clouds had 
darkened, which promised more snow. I 
turned my back on that particular gloomy 
prospect, took another large bite of 
chocolate, cream, and berries, and washed 
it down with the rich coffee. Think, I 
ordered myself, as I surveyed the kitchen 
and my cooking equipment.

   Which reminded me. What about my 
missing knife? Somehow, one of my new 
Henckels knives had ended up in Barry 
Dean's gut.

   I set aside my snack and typed, Who 
stole the knife? How? When?

   But I knew the answer almost as soon 
as I typed it. Anyone could have slipped 
into the kitchenette while Julian, Liz, 
and I were busy with the crowd. Sneaking 
in through the service entrance, once the 
main doors were opened, shouldn't have 
been too hard either, because at that 
point the security guards were inside the 
lounge.

   There ought to be some way to 
determine. . . Wait. The lounge had 
boasted a multitude of cameras, all 
poised on the party. Cameras on the 
walls; cameras overhead. Plus, there'd 
been that videographer. Surely, one of 
those cameras had captured the knife 
thief sneaking into or out of the 
kitchen. Or had the knife made it to the 
buffet, say on one of the platters, and 
been snitched from there? When I visited 
the jail, I'd have to ask Julian if he'd 
spotted anything suspicious. And getting 
back to cameras, there should have been 
some hidden ones focused on the Prince & 
Grogan shoe department, right? Wouldn't 
those videos show how Barry had died?

   I finished the cake and put in a quick 
call to Tom. Hopefully, he'd sniffed out 
news of the investigation. Did being off 
the case mean being excluded from the 
progress of the investigation?

   "Tom," I said to his voice mail, 
"could you see if the cops got hold of 
the security-camera videos from the 
lounge, and from the P and G shoe 
department? Oh, and if you find out 
anything else about Julian's case, would 
you please call?"

   As soon as I hung up, the phone rang. 
I pounced on it. It was Marla.

   "Goldy, what the hell is going on? 
Julian didn't even know Barry Dean. I say 
the hell with waiting for another 
polygraph. I told Hulsey to get his 
investigators on this right away. I'm not 
pleased that Hulsey's not dealing with 
Julian himself. He should have given you 
to Jackson."

   "I - "

   "And what is it with you and Julian, 
guzzling all that caffeine? Don't you 
know better than to drink so much of it?"

   "Well, I'll have to remember that," I 
replied huffily, "the next time I cater a 
buffet for fifty on less than five hours 
of sleep, and can peer into one of my 
crystal balls to see that Julian will 
face a polygraph for a murder 
investigation that very day. Oh, and 
since you didn't ask, I'm feeling just 
fine after being hit over the head."

   Marla rattled ice cubes, then gulped 
down something. It wasn't even noon yet. 
I hoped whatever she was drinking was 
nonalcoholic.

   She took a deep breath. "Sorry I 
yelled at you. You know how fond I am of 
Julian - I'm just scared, that's all. 
Tell me what they've got on him, would 
you please?"

   So I told her the little I did know, 
much of which she probably already had 
weaseled out of Julian or his lawyer. In 
addition to failing the polygraph, Julian 
had no alibi for the time Barry was 
murdered. He had also been accused - by 
whom, I still did not know - of being 
behind the wheel of the truck that had 
very nearly mowed Barry and me down. And 
worst of all, his fingerprints would no 
doubt show up on the murder weapon.

   "No alibi? I'll say I was with him."

   I shook my head. "No, I'm sure he was 
loading supplies and dirty dishes into my 
van, the way he said he would." And 
speaking of vehicles, I wondered, where 
were Barry's Saab and Julian's Range 
Rover? Had the police impounded both 
vehicles?

   "But," Marla protested, "if I say he 
was with me, will they let him out of 
jail?"

   "Funny thing about cops, girlfriend. 
They're interested in the truth."

   "But we ought to be able to do 
something!"

   "You could call Detective Sawyer, to 
see if they've impounded Julian's car or 
Barry's Saab. If not, get a couple of 
friends to take you to Westside, then 
find the Rover and drive it up to your 
place. Could you do that? Do you have 
keys to the Rover?”

   "Absolutely. It was my sister's car, 
remember? And I never throw anything 
away. How about Tom? Can he help?"

   I retrieved a pie crust from the 
freezer side of the walk-in. I needed to 
keep cooking if I was going to stay even 
remotely rational. "They've taken Tom off 
the case, because there's family 
involvement. Look, Marla, I'm going to 
look into this - "

   "Well, thank God for something!"

   " - but you can't tell anyone what I'm 
doing. You can't spill any details to 
your pals. If you do, Hulsey, the cops, 
and Tom will all have a fit. Now, tell me 
everything you know about Barry's social 
life. Was there a Significant Other in 
the picture?"

   She blew out air. "Of course. Barry 
was seeing Ellie McNeely, didn't I tell 
you? Ellie hooked up with him the second 
she got that bank job. I heard it had 
become très très serious. But Ellie had 
this suspicion that Barry was seeing 
somebody else on the side. According to 
her, Barry would go places and not tell 
her where he'd been. He wouldn't show up 
when he promised. She'd see him at the 
doctor's when he said he was skiing. She 
spotted him at the bank when he'd said he 
had an all-day meeting in Vail. And he 
skipped a dinner they were supposed to 
attend, claiming he'd been caught in a 
traffic jam west of the Eisenhower 
Tunnel. So I told her to hire a private 
investigator - "

   "You did what?" Sometimes Marla's 
meddling knew no bounds.

   "Not too long ago, Ellie's purse was 
stolen at the mall. Louis Vuitton, of 
course. It had her car keys in it. In her 
wallet, there was a picture of Ellie's 
daughter, Cameron, standing beside the 
rear of their silver Lexus. The photo 
included the Lexus license plate, sorry 
to say. The thief found the car in the 
mall parking lot and tried to steal it, 
but instead rammed it into Barry Dean's 
gorgeous old Mercedes. Totaled it, too. 
The Mercedes, not the Lexus."

   "What?"

   "Is there an echo on this phone line? 
Didn't Barry tell you why he had to buy 
that new Saab?"

   "Not really," I mumbled. Barry had 
mentioned his beloved old Mercedes had 
been wrecked. That was all. And I 

considered Ellie a friend. Why hadn't I 
heard about all this? But I knew the 
answer, as usual. I'd been too busy 
catering. Finally, I said, "Sorry to be 
so skeptical, but if Ellie was mad enough 
to hire a private investigator to follow 
Barry because she suspected him of 
dallying, isn't it possible that she 
faked the theft and drove her Lexus into 
his Mercedes herself?"

   "Well," Marla shot back, in the tone 
she used when the gossip became 
especially juicy, "there's all kinds of 
speculation, of course. Maybe her bag was 
never stolen, but I wouldn't sacrifice a 
Louis Vuitton anything to fake a theft. 
I'd claim someone had stolen some tote I 
got free with a perfume purchase. But the 
most prevalent theory is that that brat 
Teddy Fury swiped Ellie's bag. Everyone 
knows that kid's a klepto. The cops 
didn't find Ellie's LV purse when they 
discovered what was left of his stash of 
stolen goodies, though."

   "How do you know all these things?" I 
demanded, exasperated. "Well, unlike you, 
I'm not spending all my time cooking. I'm 
eating lunch out and hearing all the 
latest. Or I'm hustling out for a bite 
after the midweek church service, where 
people go when they just can't wait until 
Sunday for news. I go to the athletic 
club every day and wave my arms around, 
so I can please my cardiologist and catch 
up on more news that I missed at lunch or 
church. And when I'm not on the phone 
with you, I'm on with someone else, 
finding out stuff to share with you."

   I didn't reply. I was still recovering 
from Marla's revelations. "So did Ellie's 
P.I. find out damaging stuff?"

   "Goldy, all I did was recommend that 
she hire someone. After all, Ellie's 
older than Barry is. . . was. Since she 

finally got her divorce settlement, she 
has money, lots and lots more than Barry. 
So she had to find out if he was getting 
serious so he could get his hands on her 
money. She also wanted to know why he was 
lying to her about being in Vail and 
whatnot." She paused and crunched on 
something, probably a cookie. "So. You 
want to call Rufus Investigations?"

   After I jotted down the number, I 
signed off. I washed my hands and 
reflected a bit, then fluted, pricked, 
and baked the pie crust. I would make a 
quiche, I decided, and use up this 
morning's leftover bacon. The pie would 
be rich, creamy, and soothing, and would 
go perfectly with a field green salad 
dressed with raspberry vinaigrette and 
defrosted homemade baguettes. Goodness, 
but I was glad Liz was doing that wedding 
reception this afternoon.

   No one can recover from a head injury-
much less investigate - on an empty 
stomach, I reminded myself. I would have 
a salad, baguette, and slice of quiche 
before donating the rest to the 
neighbors, since it wouldn't keep for Tom 
and Arch. The neighbors would be 
thrilled.

Quiche Me Quick

7 pieces thick-sliced bacon
4 ounces Gruyère cheese, grated
8-inch baked pie shell (a baked 9-inch
shallow, frozen pie crust is fine)
3 large eggs
7/8 cup whipping cream
2 tablespoons milk
¼ teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

   Cook the bacon until crisp, drain 
thoroughly, and pat with paper towels. 
Cut each slice of bacon into 4 equal 
pieces. Evenly distribute first the 
bacon, then the cheese, over the pastry 
crust. Set aside.

   Preheat the oven to 350°F.

   In a large mixing bowl, beat the eggs 
until they are thoroughly combined. Beat 
in the cream and milk, then sprinkle on 
the nutmeg and stir until combined. Pour 
over the bacon and cheese, and set 
carefully in the preheated oven.

   Bake for 30 to 40 minutes, or until 
the quiche has puffed and browned 
slightly and is set in the middle. (Check 
with a spoon to make sure there is no 
uncooked liquid in the center of the 
quiche.)
Serve immediately.
Makes 6 servings

   I tucked the phone beneath my ear, 
started grating Gruyère, and put in a 
call to Rufus Investigations. I was told 
that John Rufus had left that morning for 
Africa, on an extended assignment. I 
swallowed hard and begged his secretary 
to look up something about a client of 
theirs. Ellie McNeely had hired Mr. Rufus 
to have somebody surveilled, and now that 
person has been murdered. The secretary 
let out an exasperated breath.

   "Let me have the name of the victim, 
then," she said, as if my call were 
ruining her day. Which it probably was.

   I gave her Barry's name, then testily 
explained that a young friend of mine had 
been arrested for the murder, and 
whatever Mr. Rufus had discovered would 
help this innocent young man get out of 
jail. . . . At that point, the secretary 
interrupted me and brusquely read the 
tenets of Rufus Investigations' 
confidentiality policy. When law 
enforcement contacts us, we will be 
sharing information with them and them 
only - 

   I thanked her and said good-bye before 
slamming the phone down. Then I cracked 
three eggs, whacked on my big mixer, and 
beat the eggs with almost a cup of 
whipping cream. Whipping cream, so aptly 
named. In cooking, you could take out 
your frustrations by whipping, folding, 
beating, and smothering.

   And here folks thought the home cook 
was so docile.

   I piled the chopped bacon and grated 
Gruyère into the cooled crust, sloshed 
the eggs and cream over all, then 
artfully grated nutmeg on top. After 
sliding the luxurious concoction into the 
oven, I phoned Ellie McNeely.

   "It's Goldy," I began. "Please don't 
hang up. I really need to talk to you - "

   "I can't talk." She was whispering. 
"There are two men here from the sheriffs 
department, and they want me to come in 
for questioning. You see, this private 
investigator I hired called them from the 
airport when he saw the headlines this 
morning. The headlines about Barry." Her 
voice trembled. "That bastard private 
eye, Rufus, told the cops I was having 
Barry followed. He told them all about 
Barry and me, and why I was having him 
tailed, and now Barry, the man I thought 
was going to marry me, has been killed - 
"

   The line went dead. I imagined 
Detective Sawyer, hovering like Uriah 
Heep, pressing the dial-tone button while 
poor, wretched Ellie sought comfort from 
a friend. Doggone it.

   John Rufus had called the sheriff's 
department from the airport? I imagined a 
man in a trenchcoat, reading the 
newspaper while waiting for his jet to 
Capetown, then making a beeline for a pay 
phone. Probably private investigators 
were like doctors and shrinks, that is, 
if they had information that might shed 
light on a crime, they had to share it. 
But why couldn't he stay in this country 
and help out a bit? Yet another question 
occurred to me. Was it possible John 
Rufus had been in Prince & Grogan last 
night, and seen who stabbed Barry? If so, 
would he have told the cops that? I 
grabbed the phone and left another 
message for Tom.

   I cleaned up the kitchen. Then I went 
back to my file. Find out if Private 
Investigator Rufus was in the department 
store, I typed. Find out what Ellie 
knows. Find out if Rufus told the cops 
anything that could help Julian. Did B.D. 
have another girlfriend, say, Pam 
Disharoon? If so, how jealous was she? 
For that matter, just how jealous was 
Ellie? Why did Barry lie about a meeting, 
and go to the bank instead? Why did he 
say he was skiing, and then hustle off to 
the doctor?

   And most importantly: Is there any 
information that can clear Julian?

   The quiche emerged puffed and golden 
brown. I cut myself an enormous slice and 
smiled after the first bite. The bacon 
gave the pie a lovely crunch, the Gruyère 
added tang and substance, and the eggs 
and cream gave the whole mélange a 
texture like velvet. I awarded myself 
points for concocting such a dish in the 
midst of stress. Next time, I would omit 
the bacon, and make one for vegetarian 
Julian when he got out of jail. With 
remarkable discipline, I dutifully 
carried a newly tossed salad, warmed 
baguettes, and the rest of the quiche to 
my next-door neighbor, Trudy. She swooned 
with joy and complimented me 
extravagantly. I actually felt happy for 
the first time in twelve hours.

   Back at home, my answering machine was 
blinking. I had three messages. Murphy's 
law of answering machines: Leave the 
house for less than ten minutes? You're 
going to miss your calls.

   The first was from Tom. His reassuring 
voice warmed me, but what he had to say 
turned my blood to ice. The cameras in 
the lounge had recorded Barry schmoozing 
with a number of guests, first Ellie, 
then several others, including Pam 
Disharoon. Unfortunately, the tapes also 
showed that Julian had had not one, but 
two squabbles with Barry. And by the way, 
none of the cameras captured my knife 
being transported in or out of the 
kitchenette. Except for the eight cameras 
focused on the display cases, there had 
been only two others, and they had 
recorded nothing regarding the murder 
weapon. The only tape the cops hadn't 
checked was the one from the roving 
videographer; the detectives were 
tracking that fellow down now.

   The cameras on either end of the P & G 
shoe department, Tom went on, were 
focused on the cash registers to keep 
tabs on the employees, and the chairs and 
couches, where women might be tempted to 
slip a pair of shoes into another 
shopping bag. No camera had been focused 
on the cabinets by the wall. Moreover, 
with the way the cabinets had been 
placed, there had been enough room behind 
them for a person to hide while I was 
struggling to help Barry. In any event, 
no videotape showed the murder, me coming 
in, or Julian finding us.

   Tom concluded by saying he was hoping 
that his friends in the department would 
continue to share information with him. 
That data-sharing would dry up instantly, 
however, if Julian flunked the second 
lie-detector test.

   The next message was short and 
bittersweet. It was from Liz Fury.

   "Goldy, I'm hoping you're OK. The 
Grigsons just stalled their wedding 
ceremony. Everything looks good for the 
setup, food, service. I added six dozen 
frozen spinach appetizers, by the way, 
from my freezer: Don't know if Tom told 
you I got two of my former staffers to 
help." She paused. "I, um, really hope 
you're feeling better:" Her voice became 
apologetic. "Goldy, I'm sorry I ever 
introduced Teddy to Julian. I just 
thought if Teddy could have a role model, 
a strong kid like Julian, that he might 
want to try to turn his life around. I 
had no idea that Julian would turn 
violent toward Barry."

   "Oh, shut up," I muttered.

   "And," Liz went on, "I certainly 
didn't think that with all those people 
there, Barry would order Teddy to be 
escorted from the mall, especially since 
he was just looking for me." She let out 
a harsh laugh. "If you can imagine, the 
cops wanted to know where I was while 
Barry was getting himself stabbed. I told 
them I was looking for my son. After 
being dragged forcibly out of the mall, 
he'd gone to his usual haunt, the nearest 
McDonalds. That’s where I found him. 
Look, I have to go. Lets talk when you 
feel better:"

   Or even sooner, I thought grimly, as I 
pressed the button for the final message. 
Lo and behold, the husky voice of Ellie 
McNeely burned through the wire. Her tone 
was of someone trying to get a grip on a 
situation spiraling out of control, and 
failing.

   "Goldy. I'm... at the sheriffs 
department. Sorry we were interrupted. Do 
you. . . did you know. . . is it true 
that Julian saw..." She snuffled. "Did 
you know anything about what the cops 
found in that runaway dump truck?

   They were. . . They were supposed to 
be a gift. . . besides, I was having a 
facial wrap, and I don't even know how to 
drive a damn truck! I - " And then the 
message ended.

   Had Ellie once again been cut off? Or 
had she lost her nerve? No matter what, I 
now knew another data nugget: That Ellie 
McNeely had knowledge of the cuff links. 
So Ellie and I needed to have an extended 
chat.

   It was almost one o'clock. I typed the 
contents of all three messages into my 
new "Barry Dean" file, reread the entire 
file, and created a list of places I 
wanted to visit or call, with questions. 
Rufus Investigations, or somebody who has 
access to their data. Ellie McNeely. 
Westside Mall - Barry’s office. Barry’s 
coworkers. Would Barry's colleagues be 
helpful, or as difficult to deal with as 
everyone else in this case? I knew there 
was an assistant manager for the mall, 
but I had no idea what his name was. Find 
out what Barry was being so secretive 
about. Why had he wanted to talk to me 
right away, then changed his mind after 
the truck incident? And why was he taking 
painkillers?

   I imagined Hulsey reading this file, 
and becoming apopleptic.

   I thought of the Vicodin in the 
freezer and frowned. Not only was I, by 
keeping something from the crime scene, 
engaging in evidence-tampering, I was 
also guilty of possession of a controlled 
substance without a prescription. There 
seemed to be many things I needed to 
avoid telling Hulsey, as well as Tom. My 
breaking the law would make them both 
apopleptic. I wondered if the medical 
examiner would find narcotics in Barry's 
bloodstream.

   I had too many questions, and very few 
answers. I glanced all around the 
kitchen, as if any of my fancy new 
paraphernalia - laser printer, copier for 
menus, plain-paper fax, new standing 
mixer, new multi bladed food processor - 
could help. My equipment was mute. That's 
the problem with technology. The ads 
promise you'll be able to improve your 
life with complicated new machines. But 
if improved life looked like figuring 
something out, you were in trouble. 
Marketing claims to the contrary, 
machines couldn't come up with good 
ideas.

   Still, there were possibilities. Our 
new printer could create logos, 
spreadsheets, and all kinds of cool 
stuff. To find out about Barry's health 
problems, I reasoned, I would have to 
have a logo, an address, and a fax 
number.

   From my files, I dug out my contract 
for the Westside Mall events. I always 
keep a photocopy of the initial check, 
including the client's driver's license 
number, and - key for my developing 
investigation - Barry Dean's Social 
Security number. Although the client for 
the Westside events was the mall owner; 
Barry Dean had been their representative. 
In the remote event of a bounced check, a 
collection service tracked the check-
writer through the SSN. Sheesh! I'd 
learned from Tom that there were lots of 
uses for that good old Social Security 
number.

   I switched computer programs and began 
to play. Ten technology-packed minutes 
later, I was ready. I didn't want to 
imagine what Hulsey or Tom would think of 
what I was up to. If I ended up getting 
caught, the consequences would probably 
involve prison garb.

   Once more I reached for the phone.

   "This is Doctor Gertrude Shoemaker," I 
announced firmly and matter-of-factly to 
the receptionist at Dr. Louis Maxwell's 
practice of general medicine. Although 
I'd hated filling in for secretaries 
who'd walked out on The Jerk, I'd at 
least learned how doctors who wanted 
information behaved. Brusquely. "I'm with 
Aspen Meadow Neurology. A patient of 
yours is here. He's paying for his own 
CAT scan. Diagnosis is chronic headache. 
I'm not sure he's telling me the truth as 
to how and when he first contracted 
symptoms, and I need a copy of his 
records. The patient has authorized the 
release."

   "Fine, Doctor," Maxwell's receptionist 
replied. "Fax us the standard release 
form on your letterhead, and we'll fax 
his records back to you as soon as 
possible."

   "When would that be?"

   "No later than four o'clock today, 
Doctor."

   I hung up and prayed that Maxwell's 
receptionist had not read the morning 
paper, which would have told her that 
Barry Dean was not sitting in my 
fictitious doctor's office, but lying in 
the morgue. I quickly put together a 
standard release form, then wrote a cover 
letter on my new fake letterhead for 
Aspen Meadow Neurology. (As if backwater 
Aspen Meadow would even have a 
neurologist! But we did boast nine 
chiropractors.) I entered Barry's Social 
Security number, stared hard at the 
contract Barry had signed with me, and 
then carefully forged his signature. Then 
I faxed the whole thing off to Dr. 
Maxwell's office. This was a very long 
shot, and the diagnosis would probably 
come back, "Patient claims headaches are 
stress-related." Still, if you were going 
to let no stone go unturned, you had to 
start upending every rock . . . and hope 
there wasn't a rattlesnake under one of 
them. And, hope that all the laws you 
were breaking didn't come back to bite 
you.

   And speaking of laws, it was time for 
me to visit the jail. After that, I would 
stop by the office of my own criminal 
defense attorney! Life's little ironies.

   I stopped first at our town's drive-
through Espresso Place, and ordered and 
paid for a four-shot latte. Of course I 
wanted to bring Julian one, but I knew 
from experience that there would be glass 
between us, and we'd have to speak to 
each other via phone. Plus, I didn't want 
him to screw up another polygraph. The 
attendant handed me the drink, and my 
skin turned cold. Latte had been one of 
Barry's favorites.

   Overhead, fast-moving, dark clouds 
thickened and roiled. An ominous gray 
nimbus stretched eastward from the 
Continental Divide. As my window hummed 
closed, the unmistakable smell of snow 
drifted into the van. Would I still be 
catering the next day's luncheon for the 
Stockhams? There had been no message, no 
apology from them for their eruption at 
the mall. I wasn't going anywhere close 
to their huge house near the Aspen Meadow 
Wildlife Preserve without working things 
out.

   Despite the rising storm, or maybe 
because of it, the number of tractors 
moving dirt around in the new section of 
Flicker Ridge had doubled since I'd 
noticed the area the previous morning. 
The trucks and tractors chugging hither 
and yon looked like a military operation. 
Two We Got Dirt trucks rumbled past the 
Topsoil $70/load sign, which now stood 
next to a revised sign: Only 2 home sites 
left! First come, first served! The price 
had been crossed out, and a new sign 
taped over it: Open to bidding. Uh-oh. If 
they'd written Make offer; that would 
have meant sales were slow. Open to 
bidding meant folks were scrambling to 
buy the sites, perhaps because the 
developer had priced them too low. The 
trucks growled and swooped over the 
mounds of dirt. Nothing like avarice to 
get a job done.

   Half an hour later I was gripping a 
phone and staring at Julian through a 
scratched Plexiglas panel. His handsome 
face looked haggard and weary, and his 
unshaven cheeks gave him a grizzled 
appearance. The too-large orange prison 
suit did not flatter his muscled body. 
Worst of all, he looked as if he'd 
neither slept nor showered since the 
arrest.

   "This is crap!" he exploded into the 
phone. "I don't belong here! It's crap! 
Can't Tom help me? I came looking for 
you, and the next thing I knew, some cop 
was slapping handcuffs on me. And now 
this lawyer says - "

   "Julian, please," I urged. "I've got a 
lawyer, too, an associate of the guy 
who's helping you. My guy will probably 
tell me not to come talk to you, because 
it would look bad. But I'm here to 
support you. So, please, please don't be 
angry with me. I know you didn't kill 
Barry."

   Julian's shoulders slumped in 
dejection. "I was trying to help him."

   "Begin at the beginning and take me 
through the time after I left the lounge. 
Minute by minute. I especially need to 
know if you saw anyone - anyone - with 
one of the new Henckels knives."

   And so Julian took me through it. It 
was almost exactly as I'd thought. I was 
disappointed, but not surprised, that he 
hadn't seen the knife disappear. After 
I'd left with Barry Dean's note - the one 
Barry had handed off to a musician, the 
note Julian had read - Julian had 
finished packing up the dirty dishes and 
equipment. He had been surprised that I 
hadn't shown up by the time he'd 
completed the loading and cleanup. The 
security and jewelry people were gone, 
and the mall was closing. He'd locked the 
lounge and come looking for me.

   "I wonder why Barry didn't have one of 
his security guys lock up the lounge, and 
take the key."

   Julian rolled his eyes. "I wish I 
knew, because then I wouldn't have had to 
say I don't know fifty times to the cops. 
When they asked me and asked me about the 

kitchenette key, I kept telling them that 
clients often ask us to lock up when we 
leave. And no one's been robbed or 
murdered yet. Or at least, not until last 
night." He groaned.

   "It's OK.," I murmured. People who 
aren't caterers have a very romantic view 
of what we do. They think it's all 
intriguing recipes, chic food, and glam 
presentation. They have no clue about, 
and certainly don't want to hear about, 
the ordering, prepping, dealing with 
clients, dishwashing, cleaning, locking 
up, and other drudge jobs associated with 
food service.

   "OK, let's get through this," Julian 
said wearily. "I forgot to tell you that 
when I finished, about five after nine, I 
made myself another cup of coffee in that 
kitchen. Everybody was gone. The coffee 
was instant, but I didn't care. I knew I 
had to drive back to Boulder, and I was 
afraid I'd fall asleep at the wheel. When 
I finished it and you still hadn't come 
back, I started to get worried. I went to 
the mall office and no one was there. So 
I went looking for you."

   "You remembered from the note to come 
to Ladies' Shoes?"

   "Yeah." His voice was morose. "I saw 
the store was closing fast, so I hurried 
over to Shoes. And there you were on the 
floor. Barry, too. I didn't think. I 
turned him over, and when I saw the 
knife, I just pulled on it. How could I 
be so dumb?"

   I tapped on the scratched plastic 
shelf in front of me. "So, no one saw you 
during the last ten, fifteen minutes 
before you came into the shoe 
department?"

   He sighed in despair. "Nope. I saw a 
few cashiers inside the stores that were 
closing, but nobody looked out at me, 
'cuz they were all busy counting the cash 
in their tills." He rubbed his bloodshot 
eyes. "Anyway, I had just tugged once on 
the knife, when this department store 
security guy started hollering at me to 
move away. He called the cops and 
eventually I was hauled off. Of course I 
wanted to take the polygraph, why 
wouldn't I? I didn't do anything! I had 
no idea Marla was calling a lawyer, and 
he didn't show up until the cops were 
through with me and it was too late. Now 
I'm behind bars on suspicion of murder. I 
was advised of the charges today. And - 
ready for this - even if I pass another 
polygraph, it might not help, 'cuz 
polygraphs are inadmissible. Those cops 
are gathering evidence to charge me with 
murder. Unless something turns up, 
they're going to hold me until the next 
regular arraignment day. My damn prints 
on the weapon are the worst. . . ."

   I shook my head, mute. The unreality 
of it all was dizzying. Julian had Cleve 
Jackson plus a team of Hulsey's 
investigators working to clear him. But 
somehow I didn't trust Hulsey's people to 
find out who had really killed Barry 
Dean.

   I'd known Barry. I'd taken the job he 
offered me. I was the one who'd found him 
after he was stabbed. At that 
unforgettable moment, Barry had uttered a 
deep, shattering groan. Then the real 
killer had whacked me with the guitar 
and, presumably, finished the job on 
Barry. Not only had I not been able to 
help my old coffee buddy, I was wondering 
what in the world I would be able to do 
for poor Julian.

   Not for the first time, my mind 
hollered at me that I had to do 
something. My heart agreed.

-8-
   I promised Julian that Tom, Marla, and 
I were working hard to get him out. Marla 
would be coming to see him later in the 
day. But Julian, his skin grayed by the 
fluorescent lights, appeared even more 
discouraged and disheartened. He asked 
about Arch. I put effort into sounding 
enthusiastic, but I knew it didn't ring 
true. Arch was doing well, I related, 
forcing a smile. As usual, my son was 
keeping mum in the social department. He 
enjoyed lacrosse and was impatient for 
Julian to come home. After all, Julian 
needed to bake his fifteenth birthday 
cake! The family party was set for this 
Friday!

   "That's the arraignment day," Julian 
said joylessly.

   I swallowed and reassured him again 
that this nightmare would be over soon 
and that everything would turn out fine.

   "Yeah, yeah," Julian said, as if he 
had not heard me. "Look, please don't 
call my parents, OK?"

   I looked at him in surprise. Julian 
adored his adoptive parents, and trekked 
down to Bluff, Utah, a couple of times a 
year to visit them. "Don't you want them 
to know - "

   "No, I don't," he interrupted me. 
"It'll give my dad a heart attack. If it 
goes to trial and all that, I'll call 
their neighbors and have them go over and 
break things to them gently."

   "Well - " Julian shrugged, offered a 
dispirited wave, and got up to leave. I 
plastered a grin on my face and gave him 
a thumbs-up.

   On the inside, of course, my 
frustration was reaching fury level. I 
left the jail and raced to Hulsey's 
office, frantic for good news. Funny 
thing about good news. You shouldn't go 
to a criminal-defense attorney looking 
for any.

   Steve Hulsey's office was decorated in 
a palette of oxblood leather, ultradark 
mahogany, cranberry glass, and maroon 
wool. Maybe this was some deranged 
decorator's vision of a bloodbath. Hulsey 
sat, statuelike, behind the vast mahogany 
desk, which was the size of a ten-person 
life raft. And oh boy, I could just 
imagine desperate clients clinging to it. 
Hulsey would be telling them what he 
could and couldn't do for his fee, which 
a former client had informed me was a 
twenty-thousand-dollar retainer, plus 
eight hundred bucks an hour after that. 
Hulsey, the very image of a westernized 
Buddha, was wearing another silk suit, a 
shimmery silver-gray pinstripe. I 
wondered if he also wore silk underpants 
à la Al Capone. One fact was clear: Steve 
Hulsey might represent desperate 
hooligans, but they were desperate rich 
hooligans.

   His terse greeting was followed by: 
"You said you wanted to talk to me about 
your innocence, Mrs. Schulz."

   "Absolutely." But where to begin? Not 
at the end, for I knew the Buddha would 
berate me if I told him I'd just visited 
Julian in jail. I fidgeted while 
reminding myself that Barry Dean's 
Vicodin and all my machinations over the 
prescription also needed to go into the 
don't-tell-your-lawyer category. Eight 
hundred bucks an hour! my conscience 
screamed. At least tell him something!

   Hulsey's eyes were piercing. I was 
sure he was reading my thoughts. His face 
turned thunderous; one of the black 
eyebrows rose.

   Will I ever be able to put this 
guilty-looking woman on the stand? he 
seemed to be asking himself. Probably 
not.

   I took a deep breath, then told Hulsey 
I'd first met Barry in school, where we'd 
had a class together. I'd lost touch with 
him after I got married and he graduated. 
He'd called me this March, though, to 
book a couple of parties. Hulsey frowned. 
I explained that Barry had heard about me 
from a mutual friend, Ellie McNeely, whom 
he had either proposed to or was about 
to. So he'd hired Goldilocks' Catering to 
do the cocktail party accompanying the 
jewelry-leasing event. I was doing 
another event for him, or at least I was 
supposed to, this Thursday, a lunch for 
potential tenants in the mall's addition 
. . . I faltered.

   "Did Dean talk to you about his 
business? Mall business?"

   "He told me he'd been working at 
Westside Mall for the last six months. 
He'd always been . . . My suspicion is - 
" I hesitated.

   "Go on."

   "Well, I just thought that if I were 
the person hiring Barry, it would be not 
so much for his expertise, even though he 
might have been super at what he did. But 
his real assets were his charm and . . . 
enthusiasm. They were contagious."

   Hulsey's brow furrowed, so I plowed 
on: "Barry was trying hard to jump-start 
sales and establish shopper loyalty to 
Westside before any more new malls opened 
in the Denver area. He loved to talk 
about shopping, about all the goodies 
that were available, especially at 
Westside. He was frustrated that the new 
mall addition was taking so long, but he 
perked up when I gave him some 
chocolate." Hulsey's scowl deepened. I 
was obviously blathering. "Look - Barry 
really didn't share very much with me 
about his job . . .or his personal life. 
I'm sorry."

   "Tell me everything about the hours 
leading up to his death." And so I did: 
Barry asking to chat with me, the truck 
incident, Barry's unwillingness to stay 
and talk to the cops, Barry craving a 
drink, the jewelry-leasing party with its 
bewildering conflicts - Liz, her son, 
Barry, Shane and Page Stockham - and 
through it all, the hectic catering. 
Barry had left without saying good-bye, I 
told Hulsey, then returned and dropped 
off the note about the gratuity. Or at 
least I thought it was about the 
gratuity, but maybe that word tip had 
meant something else. The next thing I 
knew, I was slipping on a pile of shoes 
in Prince & Grogan. When I tried to 
regain my balance, I fell onto a cabinet. 
The doors swung open, and I saw a man's 
legs, shoes, tuxedo. . . it was Barry. He 
groaned, I tried to pull him out, and 
then something struck me - 

   "So he wasn't dead at that point?" 
Hulsey interrupted. "Before you were 
hit?"

   "No. I thought I felt a weak pulse."

   Hulsey scribbled a few notes, then 
locked those impenetrable eyes on me once 
more. "You know the police have arrested 
Julian Teller. But I've got to warn you. 
From the way the detectives were 
questioning you, they're obviously 
considering you a viable suspect - "

   "Me? Why?"

   "Because you found the corpse. Because 
your knife was in Barry Dean's gut. And 
that's just the beginning. The cops say 
they wanted that note so they could 
analyze the handwriting and compare it to 
Julian's. But they'll compare it to 
yours, too."

   "Barry gave the note about the tip to 
a musician," I protested. "Julian only 
read it before he gave it to me."

   Hulsey waved this off. "Here are the 
charges they might be thinking of making 
against you: First-degree murder. 
Conspiracy to commit murder. Accessory to 
murder, or accessory after the fact - say 
if you asked Julian to pull the knife out 
of Dean. And then there's tampering with 
evidence, in case there's something from 
that scene that you're hiding from them." 
He lifted both eyebrows.

   I was right. Hulsey could read minds, 
after all. I shrugged and lifted my hands 
in a helpless gesture.

   "Mrs. Schulz, you're my client. I 
don't want you talking to anyone about 
this case. Do not see or speak to Julian 
Teller. Doing so would strengthen the 
DA's conspiracy case, if he has one. Do 
not go to that mall and start asking 
questions about Barry Dean - "

   "As I told you, Mr. Hulsey." It was my 
turn to interrupt. "I have to go to the 
mall on Thursday. I've signed a contract 
and I've been paid. The food supplies 
have been ordered. I have a catering 
commitment to honor, and my reputation 
depends on not backing out of events."

   "What kind of party is this, exactly?" 
His voice had turned patronizing.

   "Westside Mall is running scared at 
the prospect of new Denver malls wiping 
them out. Or undercutting them. This 
second event Barry hired me to do is a 
gourmet lunch for potential tenants in 
the mall addition."

   Hulsey gave me that get-to-the-facts 
expression again. So I got to them.

   "The owner of Westside, Pennybaker 
International, is sending out a high-
powered team to secure leases for the 
vacant portion of the new addition. On 
Thursday, they've invited twelve of the 
hottest companies in the Westside area to 
hear the official pitch on why any 
retailer who wants to make big money 
needs to have a store in the mall 

addition."

   "What are you serving?" Hulsey said 
unexpectedly.

   "He-man food," I replied with what I 
hoped was a high-class sniff. "Oriental 
dumpling soup. Prime rib. Mashed russet 
and sweet potatoes. Strawberry-rhubarb 
cobbler. Barry ordered that food hoping 
that once they ate it, all the retailers 
would feel rich enough to afford 
Westside."

   Hulsey sighed. "If you do the event, I 
want you to concentrate on food. Not 
crime. Understand?"

   I nodded. He told me that he would get 
in touch with me if he needed to, and I 
should do the same. I took my leave, and 
noted we'd been together half an hour. 
For Marla's four hundred bucks, I'd been 
told stuff I either didn't want to hear 
or was planning to ignore. If Julian was 
still in jail on Thursday, did Attorney 
Hulsey really think I'd concentrate on 
food and not crime?

   If so, he was sadly mistaken.

   Since Hulsey's office wasn't far from 
Westside Mall, I drove over there. If 
anyone asked, I'd say I was looking for 
Julian's Range Rover, which was sort of 
true. In any event, as long as I was 
going to violate Hulsey's instructions, 
there were two people I wanted to talk 
to: Pam Disharoon and Ellie McNeely, the 
two purported girlfriends of the deceased 
Barry Dean. I knew Ellie had been taken 
to police headquarters. Now she was 
probably back at work at the bank. But 
Pam worked for Prince & Grogan, in the 
lingerie department. I could always use a 
new nightie, couldn't I?

   I followed the route Liz and I had 
taken just the previous day - which 
seemed an eternity ago - along Doughnut 
Drive. Where yesterday only a handful of 
workers had been visible, now there was 
activity everywhere. I passed a crew 
raking and smoothing the cavernous hole 
in the berm made by the errant dump 
truck. Near them, another gang of 
laborers dug holes in the topsoil. Flats 
of spruce bushes stood nearby, ready to 
be planted. Did the crews work alternate 
days, or had someone lit a fire under 
them? Had Barry's murder somehow 
accelerated the slow-as-molasses 
construction of the new addition? Hmm.

   To my further surprise, the 
construction lot was more than half-full 
of trucks ranging from tractor-trailers 
to pickups. Workers diligently 
transported sheets of plywood, spray-
painted drywall, or pointed high-powered 
hoses at freshly laid concrete pavers. 
Diesel-powered cranes lofted yet more 
workers onto the roofs of almost-finished 
stores. Those guys scampered up and over 
the pitched surfaces as if they were 
playground equipment. A newly painted 
banner floated overhead: Boutiques 
Opening Soon!

   Oh, yeah? When?

   Another surprise: The construction 
gate was open and unattended. Management 
must have decided that sparing a worker 
to be gatekeeper was not possible, 
especially with the heightened level of 
construction bustle. Still, in light of 
the truck incident, you'd think they'd at 
least be a bit more careful.

   I ignored the new No Trespassing sign 
and sailed the van into the construction 
lot. The drainage pond, now with chunks 
of ice floating in it, was slick with 
oil. Workers driving Caterpillars were 
digging and smoothing the layer of rutted 
dirt over which the dump truck had 
lurched toward us. Which one of those 
workers had claimed he'd seen Julian 
piloting that truck? I wondered.

   I slowed and surveyed Westside Mall's 
main parking area. Compared to the usual 
crowd of vehicles, the number of cars was 

anemic, no more than a third of the 
previous day's. Apparently, the newspaper 
articles on Barry's death had discouraged 
shoppers. For those who hadn't caught the 
news and had ventured out, driving past 
the yellow police ribbons surrounding 
Prince & Grogan would have sent them 
packing.

   What had Barry said? Nothing clears a 
mall like a security threat. Or a murder, 
apparently.

   I parked near one of the Sky track 
cranes. Victor Wilson, excavator-turned-
construction-manager, was nowhere in 
sight. I headed toward a cluster of 
workers standing near a Dumpster. They 
were leaning over a drop cloth dense with 
paint cans. Something must have been 
wrong with the paint, because the workers 
were having a heated discussion.

   I sauntered up and asked them where 
their boss-guy was. The painters 
exchanged guarded looks.

   "I've just got a quick question for 
Victor," I improvised hastily, "about the 
construction. I'm the caterer for the 
tenants' lunch later in the week, and 
they asked me to find out when Victor was 
going to give the go-ahead to occupy the 
new stores."

   Several workers shook their heads and 
backed away. It was clear they weren't 
going to help me. I turned to the 
remaining workmen.

   "Anybody know when the new stores are 
going to be ready?"

   Silence. A short, heavyset Hispanic 
man carrying two paint cans ambled up. I 
smiled at him and he grinned back, more 
than I could say for any of the other 
fellows. Before I could repeat my request 
for info, a long, lanky crew member, 
perched on one of the ladders by the new 
Il Fornaio, yelled in a Southern accent 
that Victor wasn't coming in that day. I 
exhaled and told myself to be patient.

   I lowered my voice and addressed the 
remaining workers. Had anybody seen the 
accident with the truck yesterday? One or 
two nodded. That was going to set back 
the construction schedule for sure, I 
said, shaking my head. Ah, I asked, had 
anyone seen who was driving that truck? 
No, no, they shook their heads and 
avoided my eyes. We didn't see. Not a 
thing. Uh-uh.

   The workers began to disperse around 
the Dumpster. I felt suddenly desperate. 
"Do any of you know who told the police 
that my assistant was driving the truck?"

   The heavyset fellow grinned. The name 
Raoul was embroidered on his workshirt.

   "Yeah," said Raoul, "I know who told 
'em and - " Raoul registered that the few 
remaining workers were staring at him. 
Abruptly, he closed his mouth.

   "Who was he, though? Who told them?" I 
demanded. My voice had become shrill.

   "He weren't nobody, lady," said the 
lanky fellow, as he stepped down the 
ladder. He had sand-colored hair and skin 
the color of a pecan shell. He moved in 
my direction and spoke like someone in 
authority. "He was a temporary worker. He 
just quit." He jest quee-at.

   "But who was he?" I persisted. "He 
told the police that lie, and now a 
friend of mine is in jail."

   "Lady, that guy is gone. Does anybody 
remember his name?" Pecan-shell turned to 
the remaining workers.

   No, no, no, came the chorus of 
denials. No lo conosco. Don't know him. 
What was going on? Were these guys 
covering for a buddy who stole big trucks 
and tried to mow people down with them? 
They clearly had lots of sympathy for 
him, even if his quitting had left them a 
worker short.

   This project is cursed, I asserted 
silently. The workers, avoiding my eyes, 
picked up their cans and walked away. 
These guys, I decided, are not happy 
campers. First their construction manager 
walks out, then one of their trucks is 
swiped and run into a fresh berm, then a 
worker lies and vanishes, and now nobody 
knows the whereabouts of the boss-guy who 
is supposed to be running things. 
Emphasis on the supposed to. Maybe some 
answers would be forthcoming if the 
Furman County attorney could get here and 
serve a handful of subpoenas, but it was 
unlikely that I would be able to extract 
any more information.

   I reached into my purse, pulled out a 
handful of cards, and handed them to 
Raoul. At least he'd graced me with some 
kind of answer. His paint-stained fingers 
closed around my offering.

   "Look, Raoul," I implored, "if you do 
happen to remember the name of the guy 
who told the cops who drove the truck, 
I'd really appreciate a call. Please - 
it's very important."

   I made my way across the rickety 
makeshift bridge that spanned the icy 
drainage puddle. At the glass-prismed 
doors, I glanced back at the construction 
crew. To the amusement of his coworkers, 
Raoul was flinging my cards one by one 
into the Dumpster.

   Furious, I marched into the mall. My 
injured right side rebelled and shot an 
arrow of pain into my lower abdomen. I 
clutched my side, leaned against one of 
the marble walls, and took a hacking, 
uneven breath. The few beautiful people 
shopping that day passed me by.

   What was I doing here? I was supposed 
to be resting; I'd promised the doctor 
and Tom that I would. Worse, I was at one 
of the two places - the other being the 
jail - that Counselor Hulsey had ordered 
me not to go. Could my lawyer refuse to 
represent me if I didn't do what he said? 
Might the construction workers call the 
cops and say the caterer from Monday was 
bothering them with her nosy questions? 
Didn't she have enough catering work to 
keep her busy?

   I gripped my side and soldiered on, 
trying not to think of the wedding 
reception I'd been booked to do that day, 
trying not to think of Liz and her crew 
working while I was here at the mall. I 
also veered away from reflecting on the 
work-intensive events I was scheduled to 
cater over the next two days.

   And then, suddenly, I was trying not 
to think of Julian. Someone had set up 
our old family friend, of that I was 
sure. But who? And why? This person was 
violent, no question about it. Paranoid, 
I looked all around. Nobody appeared to 
be following me. I limped forward and 
tried to ignore the image of Shane 
Stockham's enraged face as he'd rushed 
forward in attack mode.

   Oh, my God. Shane Stockham. He was Elk 
Park Prep's lacrosse coach. Arch’s 
lacrosse coach. As I hobbled along, I 
punched in the numbers for my son's cell 
phone.

   "It's Mom," I said into his voice 
mail. "Don't go to lacrosse if Shane is 
there. Call Tom or me instead. This is 
very important. One of us will come and 
get you. Call me on the cell. Arch, this 
is important." I blocked out an image of 
my son making a disgusted face when he 
listened to the message.

   My first stop was the Prince & Grogan 
lingerie department. No, Pam Disharoon 
was not working that day, a scarlet-
haired clerk informed me. Pam's only in 
on Wednesdays, Thursdays, Fridays, and 
Saturdays, or I could leave a message. . 
. . On another one of my business cards, 
I scribbled a note asking Pam to call. I 
hoped this card wouldn't get tossed, but 
with my luck. . . No, better not reflect 
on that, either.

   I pushed past an exit sign and headed 
down the narrow hall that led to the mall 
manager's office. If I couldn't get any 
answers there, this trip was going to be 
a complete bust.

   I spotted Westside's assistant 
manager, whose name I now remembered was 
Rob Eakin. He was behind the glass 
surrounding his office by the tiny 
reception area. I'd met Eakin once. He 
was a short, wide fellow whom I judged to 
be in his forties. Now, his brow 
glistened with sweat as he listened to 
two people whose raised voices penetrated 
the glass separating them from me. With 
Barry gone, Rob Eakin must have been 
named acting mall manager. He didn't look 
too good.

   I nodded to the receptionist and moved 
to the chair closest to Eakin's office. 
Right before I filed for divorce, I'd 
overheard The Jerk boinking a nurse in an 
empty hospital room. After that, no 
amount of righteous eavesdropping 
bothered me. Still, try as I might, I 
couldn't quite make out what the people 
in the office were squabbling about.

   I sighed in frustration.

   The plumply padded receptionist - 
whose name I struggled to recall - 
watched me intently. Her cheeks were 
puffy and mottled, her eyes bloodshot. 
Her French-twisted blond hair resembled 
an unkempt haystack. Crumpled tissues lay 
scattered across her desk. A multi 
buttoned phone blinked and buzzed. She 
ignored it.

   "I remember... you," she told me. Her 
wobbly voice indicated she'd been 
weeping. "You're the . . .caterer. The 
one who solves crimes."

   "The very one," I replied amiably. 
"How's it going?"

   "Awful." It came out like a sob.

   "It's terrible, isn't it? Poor Barry. 
Um, why didn't you take today off?"

   She pressed a tissue to her eyes, 
unable to respond. Two of the blinking 
phone lines went dark.

   "Sorry," I said gently, "but I do have 
a catering question that needs an answer. 
It's about the lunch event Barry hired me 
for, this Thursday, the one for the 
potential tenants."

   The receptionist-her name was Heather, 
I finally remembered - stifled another 
sob. "I wish you could find out what 
happened to him!"

   "I do, too," I said softly. "I . . . I 
miss him. Barry and I used to be friends, 
back in our college days."

   "Really? Way back then? That's sweet."

   I bit down on telling her that less 
than two decades - not glacier-forming 
epochs - separated me from my college 
days. Instead, I waited while she reached 
daintily for more tissues. Truth to tell, 
Barry's and my friendship had lasted only 
a semester, which was four months. Then, 
after years of silence, he'd hired me to 
cater at the mall. We had been friends; 
then we'd gone our separate ways.

   So, I thought suddenly, why the great 
push to be friendly again? Heather blew 
into one tissue, then dabbed her eyes 
with another. I realized I was staring at 
her. Something was bothering me. "Uh, 
Heather? How do you happen to know I've 
been involved in crime investigations? 
From that article in the paper about Hyde 
Castle? Did Barry show that to you? He 
told me my friend Mrs. McNeely had urged 
him to hire me. How does the article fit 
in?"

   "Oh, yeah, Barry told me all about 
it." She pulled a miniature compact from 
her bag and patted powder on her nose. 
"He told me how you dived into this pond 
to look for a murderer - "

   "It was a moat - "

   " - and how you always were able to 
find out what a criminal had done, and 
how good you were, and stuff like that. 
He was looking at you and about four 
other caterers, and then he read the 
article and told me to call you! To see 
if you could do the jewelry party and the 
potential tenants' lunch."

   The phone buzzed again; this time 
Heather decided to answer it. I rubbed my 
temples. This was not what Barry had told 
me when he'd called. While Heather talked 
into the phone, I closed my eyes and 
tried to reconstruct.

   In March, Barry had phoned me out of 
the blue. He'd been brimming with the 
charisma and gusto that had made him, 
well, Barry Dean. We had a friend in 
common! he exclaimed. His dear friend 
Ellie McNeely, who knew me so well from 
our church work together, had recommended 
Goldilocks' Catering to him! Where had I 
been all these years? Why hadn't I called 
him? I'd been astonished to hear from my 
old coffee buddy. I'd offered a précis of 
Life Since College; Barry had listened 
patiently. Then he'd poured on the charm 
and informed me that he wanted to hire 
me, the famous caterer, for his "lavish" 
mall parties, because, because, because . 
. .

   Heather hung up the phone and 
snuffled. Then she touched up her 
lipstick and answered the intercom buzz. 
I struggled to remember that first call 
from Barry Dean. I want to hire you. . . 
because Ellie recommends you! Because 
you're this famous caterer who gets 
written up all over the place! Then he'd 
faltered and laughed again, as if 
overwhelmed by my renown. Because of . . 
. of our history, he'd burbled. Because I 
always prefer hiring a friend, especially 
a close personal friend like you, Goldy. 
His flattery, his flair, his sudden 
intimacy had so befuddled me that I'd 
never thought to say, But I haven't heard 
from you in more than fifteen years. Yes, 
we like coffee and canines, but. . . when 
were we ever close personal friends?

   Heather took another call. If the 
truth be told, Barry Dean and I had never 
been close personal friends. But Barry, a 

mall manager and effervescent marketer, 
had heard about me from Ellie, yes. He'd 
been looking at a handful of caterers 
until he cut out an article on my 
involvement in an Aspen Meadow homicide 
investigation. Then he'd told his 
secretary to call me so he could book the 
mall events.

   I blushed to think of my naïvete. 
Close personal friends, indeed. I was 
willing to wager a side of beef that 
Barry had hired me because he had a 
problem. A crime problem, undoubtedly, 
one he would not or could not share with 
his bosses at Pennybaker International. A 
problem that, for whatever reason, was 
not something he could entrust to his own 
security people. Maybe he'd been afraid 
of the publicity, of the sudden truth of 
his credo nothing-clears-a-mall-like-a-
security-threat. Then again, maybe he 
couldn't afford to look like a failure.

   He hadn't done very well with his 
problem, had he? After the incident with 
the out-of-control dump truck, Barry I-
knew-this-would-happen Dean had refused 
to talk even to me. Instead, he'd rushed 
back to his office. This office. He'd 
gone to the jewelry event, which had 
involved ejecting a shoplifting teen and 
dealing with a potentially violent 
conflict between the feuding Stockhams. 
At some point, he'd scribbled a note 
about having a tip for me, and needing to 
meet up in the P & G shoe department. But 
I'd arrived too late.

   Heather," I asked cautiously when she 
hung up the receiver, "did Barry leave me 
anything?"

   To my horror, a fat tear splashed down 
her cheek. "You mean," she said, as she 
again started to sniffle, "like in his 
will?"

   "Oh no, of course not! Just . . .like 
a letter or note or something."

   "You mean about the tenants' lunch? Or 
about one of his little hunts that he 
likes, liked to send people on?"

   "Little bunts?"

   "Like the one for Mrs. McNeely and her 
engagement ring?"

   "Yes, like that." I was intrigued. 
Ellie had not mentioned a quest, much 
less one that involved an engagement 
ring. "Were they engaged?"

   "Well, no," said Heather. "She hadn't 
found the ring. The riddle or whatever it 
was was too hard."

   "The riddle." Had he sent Ellie in a 
convoluted pursuit of her ring, as he'd 
sent me searching for those long-ago 
psych notes?

   "I don't know anything about it, it 
was some kind of game." Heather frowned. 
"And in terms of him leaving something 
for you, I haven't found anything. But 
the filing today is like, pfft, forget 
it. I haven't been in Barry's office 
since the police went through 
everything."

   "Of course. Well . . ." I was thinking 
furiously. "Heather, if you should come 
across anything, even something small and 
seemingly insignificant, would you call 
me?" When she nodded, I went on: "I need 
to know about tomorrow's lunch. When will 
Mr. Eakin be available?"

   Heather cut a sideways glance at the 
glassed-in office. "Nine people have 
already asked to see him, besides those 
guys. You're probably looking at two 
hours or more."

   With parties to prep, calls to make, 
and Arch to check on, I didn't I have two 
hours to spare. I quickly wrote Rob Eakin 
a note expressing my sympathy for the 
loss of Barry and asking for someone to 
call if the potential tenants' lunch was 
not still on for Thursday. Mr. Dean had 
already paid for the food and labor, I 
added. Heather placed my note on top of 
an unpromisingly large stack of paper and 
swore she'd deliver it as soon as 
possible. Seeing my worried look, she 
told me that if Mr. Eakin couldn't handle 
my request, she'd let me know herself 
about the Thursday lunch. Meanwhile, from 
the glassed-in office, the raised voices 
were suddenly audible.

   "You need to do some damage control, 
Eakin! We don't figure this thing out, 
we're going to lose half our tenants!" 
howled a male voice.

   "I've got two-thirds of them already 
screaming!" shrieked a young woman in a 
white shirt, black blazer, and black bow 
tie. Her face had turned scarlet; her 
brown hair, pulled into a tight bun, 
strained at its riggings. "They want 
twice as many security guys as we've 
already got!"

   Eakin closed his eyes and rubbed his 
temples.

   Heather's eyes widened. "Look, I 
promise I'll call you if I find anything 
Barry left you," she stage-whispered. I 
nodded, not hopeful. If the cops had been 
through everything, it was unlikely 
there'd be anything left for Heather to 
find.

   I thanked her and started to leave. 
Then I turned back. "Where is Victor 
Wilson today? I went out to the site. I 
had something to ask him, but he's not 
there."

   Heather clucked disapprovingly. "Not a 
clue. Not that I would care about that 
asshole," she added.

   "You don't get along with Victor? How 
come?"

   Once again we were interrupted by 
arguing from the inner office.

   "You've got to get the cops out of 
here!" the bunned bow tie lady squealed. 
"They're driving customers away!"

   "They can't leave until they figure 
out what happened!" Rob Eakin yelled 
back.

   Heather waved her hand. "Victor Wilson 
orders me around like I'm his secretary, 
not Barry's. He hires and fires workers 
whenever he feels like it, which gets us 
into a real mess with the worker-comp 
people and the unemployment-benefits 
people. And the Civil Liberties guys 
claim he treats Hispanic workers badly 
and pays them less than we do the other 
workers. For our office, the worst thing 
is that he keeps everyone dangling about 
when these stores are going to be 
finished. Victor's a major-league 
asshole."

   "Did Barry get along with him?"

   "Well," Heather said with a sniff, 
"would you, if you were mall manager? 
Victor makes fourteen tons of paperwork 
for us, gives us a bad name in the 
Hispanic community, and won't tell us 
when the damn stores are going to be 
done."

   "Were he and Barry enemies, then?"

   Heather snorted a laugh, the first 
time she'd looked amused all morning. 
"You are bad, girl. Is this how you get 
crimes solved?" She giggled some more, 
then slid her eyes over to the 
contentious meeting. "The cops asked me 
about each and every person who worked 
closely with Barry. I looked up 
everyone's schedule, even the security 
guys'. For Victor, I called Westside 
Community College. He teaches a class 
there on building your own house 
addition. Every Monday. Last night, 
Victor was giving a test." She giggled 
again, unable to control herself. I began 

to worry about the hysterical tone 
creeping into her voice. "I tried to take 
that class and gave up. Victor said, 
'While the little woman's making you an 
apple pie, you can be the big man 
building her a brand-new kitchen.' So I 
said, 'I am so out of here.'"

   My eyes strayed to the glassed-in 
office, where all of the participants in 
the altercation were talking into cell 
phones.

   "Did, uh, Victor try to order the 
previous construction manager around?"

   "Lucas Holden? Noto? He was the last 
construction manager."

   "Was that his name?" I asked. "Lucas? 
Who's Noto?"

   "That's just what we called old Lucas. 
No-toe. On account of a girder that fell 
on his big toe once, so he lost it. I'm 
like, Call a toe truck, yo! But nobody 
thought that was funny."

   I sighed. Heather definitely needed 
some time off.

   "So what happened to this Lucas 
Holden?" I asked resolutely.

   "He quit. Another asshole," she 
declared vehemently.

   "And where did Lucas go?"

   "Oh, the letter he wrote us said he 
was going to Arizona someplace. Nobody 
ever called him Lucas, though. Strictly 
No-toe."

   "Do you have an address for. . . 
Holden?"

   Heather swiveled in her chair toward 
her files. "I'll look, if you'd like. But 
you don't want to get mixed up with No-
toe, trust me. He's the reason we're in 
the mess we're in, with the new stores 
not ready, construction loans to pay, a 
drainage mess to clean up, a shortage of 
workers, blah, blah, blah, Don't get me 
started on No-foe."

   I didn't, even though I was 
increasingly eager to find out if Lucas 
Holden, aka No-toe Holden, had gotten 
along with Barry and everyone else at the 
mall.

   Heather frowned over one file, then 
stuffed it back in the drawer when she 
read the concern in my face, "Look," she 
said, "I'll try to get No-toe's phone 
number for you, If I can't find it, I'll 
ask Victor if he has it somewhere," She 
grabbed for her tissue box and muttered, 
"Victor, What an asshole."

   Since we'd already traveled that 
particular loop, I nodded a good-bye, 
From the inner office, the voices rose 
again.

   "If you can't hire more security, then 
maybe we need a new acting manager!" the 
first man howled at Rob Eakin.

   "Great idea!" screamed Eakin.

   "Find out who killed Barry, would 
you?" Heather implored, as she crumpled 
her latest tissue and dabbed her eyes.

   "I'm trying," I said gently, over the 
noise of the office fight, "Take care of 
yourself, Heather."

   Then I backed out the door.

-9-
   As I gunned the van toward Aspen 
Meadow, Julian's face stayed in my 
thoughts. He was emotionally and 
physically strong; anyone who knew him 
knew that. Surely he'd be able to handle 
whatever the jail experience offered, 
from bad cellmates to horrid food. When 
Julian did get out of jail, he'd probably 
start a campaign to bring fresh 
vegetables to inmates.

   I tried to smile, but couldn't. The 
memory of Julian's haggard face and 
downcast spirits was too strong.

   Barry, I reminded myself, as I raced 
onto the interstate. Barry is the key. My 
thinking was getting clearer in this 
department. My assumptions began with the 
theory that Barry had gotten himself into 
some kind of trouble. Ellie McNeely and I 
had been friends for a long time. When 
Barry was looking for a caterer, Ellie 
had told her boyfriend-who-hadn't-given-
her-a-ring-yet about me. But Barry hadn't 
decided on a caterer until he'd read the 
article about the debacle at Hyde Castle. 
Somehow, that article had clinched it. 
Barry'd figured if he hired his old pal, 
amateur crime-solver Goldy Schulz, she 
could straighten things out. But his 
attempt to fill me in on his dilemma - or 
even tell me what the dilemma was - had 
gone terribly awry.

   The snow-capped peaks and plum-purple 
shadows of the Continental Divide came 
into view. I pressed on the accelerator.

   Barry's dying and Julian's arrest were 
not my fault. Still, I felt responsible. 
If only I had tried harder to make Barry 
talk to me . . . If only I had been less 
obsessed with my catering event. . . .

   Barry had tried to reach out to me. 
But he had been too proud, too scared, 
too something to just blurt out what was 
bothering him. And now he was gone.

   Ringing from my cell phone made my 
heart jump. It was Alicia, my supplier. 
Was I ready to receive this week's food 
order? Yep, I replied, you bet. Alicia 
promised to be at our house in thirty 
minutes. So much for stopping by the Bank 
of Aspen Meadow to see if Ellie could 
visit. I called the bank to try to set up 
an appointment with her, but was told she 
was being questioned again by someone 
from the sheriff's department. A 
detective had taken Ellie to the bank's 
conference room, and had asked not to be 
disturbed. Yes, I was told, a message 
would be left for Mrs. McNeely, asking 
her to return my call.

   Barry might have thought I was an ace 
amateur sleuth, but it looked now as if 
my reputation was becoming a drawback. 
Maybe I was paranoid, but Pam Disharoon 
wouldn't or couldn't see me; ditto Rob 
Eakin, Ellie McNeely, and Capetown-bound 
John Rufus. Well. No matter what, I was 
going to find a way to get Julian out of 
jail.

   And then - surprise! - my cell phone 
rang again.

   "Goldy, it's Page Stockham."

   "Uh, well. Yeah." I couldn't even 
stammer out a proper greeting. "What's 
up?" I asked feebly. "How are you and 
Shane, uh, doing?"

   "I really, really want to apologize to 
you." Her breathy voice cracked. "So does 
Shane. He's going to call you later. 
Look, it's all my fault. I started the 
fight at the party. I'm sorry. Oh, God. 
Please, please say you'll cater for us 
Wednesday. We need this lunch wicked 
bad."

   "I don't know what to say. Maybe we 
should think it over," I murmured. Excuse 
me, but it was Shane who'd started to 
attack his wife. Page had prodded and 
ridiculed him, yes. But instead of 
charging her, Shane could have walked 
away. In fact, they both could have. But 
Page hadn't rung me up for marital 
advice.

   "Don't abandon us," she pleaded. 
"Marla told me you'd probably cancel, and 
I needed to call you and eat dirt. 
Please, please don't cancel on us. We're 
under terrible stress financially, and 
we're going to a counselor, because money 
is, the lack of money is, well, killing 
us."

   I turned off on the Aspen Meadow exit 
and tried to think of what to say.

   "Let me think about it," I said to 
Page.

   "Please, Goldy. I'm really, really 
sorry. We both are."

   "We'll talk later," I promised. We 
signed off.

   The first thing I did when I slammed 
into the kitchen at home was check the 
fax machine. Empty. The voice mail, 
though, announced that five folks had 
called.

   The first message was from Tom. He was 
swamped, so could I pick up Arch today 
after all? Please call him if I could 
not, and he'd shuffle things around. I 
smiled. Of course I would get Arch. By 
the way, Tom added, Marla called and 
demanded that he look into Shane 
Stockham, to see if Stockham had any 
reports of, or arrests for, domestic or 
any other kind of violence. No, Tom said. 
Shane was clean.

   The second message was from Arch, 
who'd checked his cell phone voice mail 
between classes - strictly forbidden at 
Elk Park Prep - and was calling from the 
boys' bathroom. Flushing sounds 
punctuated the static as Arch sullenly 
announced that Mr. Stockham was not 
coaching lacrosse anymore, and had I 
gotten him fired? My son went on to say 
that he would be going to practice no 
matter what, and Tom wasn't coming to 
pick him up, so he needed me to be there 
right at five o'clock. And please don't 
tell him when to go to practice and when 
not to go. I sighed as his phone slammed 
shut.

   The third call was in a husky voice. 
"Find out why Barry Dean had headaches, 
lady. Then you'll get all your answers." 
I sat up straight, taken aback. The 
caller had hung up without leaving a 
name. I played the message four times, 
but could not recognize the voice. My 
caller ID said the number was 
unavailable. I saved the message and 
moved on.

   Shane Stockham's contrite tone was 
next. "I am so sorry we had a problem 
yesterday, Goldy. It was all my fault. 
And by the way, I'm quitting coaching at 
Elk Park Prep. We're just having too many 
problems. Anyway, I hope you won't press 
charges against me for coming at you 
yesterday." He paused, and I almost felt 
sorry for him. Almost. "If you're not too 
mad at me, Page and I are still hoping to 
have this party tomorrow. At our place, 
at noon. Come by whenever you need to set 
up. Goldy . . . I hope you can forgive 
me. " He signed off.

   Shane Stockham was doing really badly. 
Well, this I knew from Marla, Page, and 
now him. But he had quit coaching? Just 
because he and his wife had had a tiff at 
the jewelry event?

   The final call was from Pam Disharoon. 
"My friend phoned and said you wanted me 
to call, so here I am. But you're not 
there. I'll be at P and G tomorrow, 
Wednesday, from ten to six. Same on 
Thursday and Friday, and ten to ten on 
Saturday. OK?" She didn't sound pleased, 
and she didn't bother to say good-bye.

   I put on my apron and reflected. Arch 
was mad at me, Shane was sorry as hell, 
and Pam was miffed. And I wasn't sure why 
any of them were feeling the way they 
were. But it was the third call I'd 
received that had me the most bewildered. 
Find out why Barry Dean had headaches. 
Well, I was trying to find out. And who 
had made that call? Raoul, the 
construction worker? Rob Eakin, the 
mall's acting manager? Victor Wilson? The 
caller had been a male, I was pretty 
sure, and not like anyone I'd heard 
before.

   A knock on the front door derailed 
that particular train of thought. My 
peephole revealed strawberry-blond 
Alicia, my supplier since I'd opened 
Goldilocks' Catering. She hauled in 
baskets of fresh wild mushrooms - 
stunning arrays of everything from 
chanterelles to Portobellos - plus 
marbled slabs of standing rib roast, 
lusciously flavorful greenhouse-grown 
strawberries and rhubarb, and the rest of 
the supplies for the next two days' 
parties. As she was leaving, she handed 
me a brightly wrapped compact disc.

   "It's for your kid. I can't understand 
this music," she said with a wink, "but 
the guy at the store told me this is what 
they're listening to these days. Tell 
Arch happy birthday from me."

   I thanked Alicia profusely, gave her a 
check for the supplies, and got to work 
storing the food. Once done, I stood 
immobilized in the middle of our kitchen. 
Frustration gnawed at my brain. I needed 
to cook. Working with food always helped 
put things in perspective.

   On my new computer, I pulled up the 
menu for Shane's luncheon party. Yes, I 
was going to do it. He had apologized; 
his wife had apologized. Besides, he was 
the one who'd flown through the air and 
landed on the lounge floor. Maybe he was 
quitting coaching lacrosse because he was 
black-and-blue. Maybe he was quitting 
because he'd been thrashed by a mom.

   I felt my mouth curl into a smile. 
Finally, finally, I was beginning to look 
forward to doing the Stockhams' lunch. I 
tried to recall the layout of their 
place. The house itself was a gorgeous 
log dwelling in a stunning development of 
executive homes near the entrance to the 
Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve. As my 
printer spat out the menu, recipes, and 
schedule, I called Shane back and left a 
message thanking him for his apology. All 
was forgiven, I said, while making a 
serious mental note to bring a can of 
Mace to the party, just in case he lost 
it again. In my message, I 
enthusiastically concluded that my crew 
and I would start setting up around ten 
tomorrow.

   I searched for and found my Mace, then 
slipped it into my purse. As I scanned 
the menus, I tried to recall everything 
I'd heard from Marla about Shane and 
Page. According to Marla, Shane's store, 
The Gadget Guy, had received an eviction 
notice from Westside Mall. This notice 
had to have come from Barry. Complicating 
Shane's problems were 1) Westside wanted 
a million bucks' worth of back rent from 
him, and 2) his wife Page had a 
compulsive shopping problem, an addiction 
severe enough to warrant antidepressants 
and group therapy. Moreover, Page was 
locked in a to-the-death competition with 
her sister Pam, for stuff.

   But how had Shane and Page Stockham 
felt about Barry? If either one of them 
had been on bad terms with him, why had 
they come to the jewelry event? Ah . . . 
but I knew the answer to that. More than 
anything, Page craved whatever big-ticket 
items sister Pam managed to land. 
Apparently, Page hadn't gotten what she 
wanted. No doubt that was why she and her 
husband had fought. I'd have to ask Tom 
if the videotape had shown anything else 
about the whole Shane-Page-Pam-Barry 
situation.

   I made myself a perfect cup of 
espresso to wash down a couple of aspirin 
and two homemade caramel brownies that 
Alicia had thoughtfully left on the 
kitchen table. Oh, boy, I thought, as 
warm fuzzies spiraled through my veins. 

Nothing like chocolate and coffee to kill 
pain.

   I switched files and typed all I'd 
learned that day into the "Barry" file. 
Sipping the last of the coffee, I added 
my new crop of questions and licked my 
fingers. Then I read over the file. Why 
did the image of grasping at straws come 
to mind? I ignored the image, washed my 
hands, and rinsed the strawberries and 
rhubarb.

   My fax rang. Since Arch's short-lived 
foray into quantum physics had taught me 
that, indeed, the watched pot never 
boils, I was sure the same principle 
applied to fax machines. So I trimmed and 
halved the juicy strawberries, cut the 
crunchy emerald-and-ruby rhubarb into 
tidy widths, and mixed both of them with 
a judicious combination of cornstarch and 
sugar. Yum.

   I carefully set the bowls of 
glistening fruit aside, then grabbed the 
spill of faxed pages. The brief cover 
letter was followed by a photocopied page 
from Barry Dean's medical records. Ha!

   I read the doctor's notes and then, 
stunned, sat down to read them again.

Pt. fought with a friend, who pushed him 
down. Pt. lost balance, fell into deep 
ditch, landed on back of head. Headaches 
ever since. Pt. v. stressed. Thinks he 
may have tumor: Pain excruciating. 

Vicodin script, follow in 2w.

   I swallowed hard. Doggone it. If only, 
if only, Barry had told his doctor who 
this belligerent "friend" was. Finding 
out why Barry had headaches might be the 
key, but it looked as if I'd have to wait 
for Mr. Anonymous Phone Call to elucidate 
that particular datum.

   Then again, maybe Barry had told his 
doctor the identity of the pusher. My 
girlfriend, who set a P.I. on my tail. My 
other girlfriend, the lingerie 
saleswoman. The owner of The Gadget Guy, 
after he slapped my face with his 
eviction notice. The construction 
manager; before he suddenly quit. And 
those were only the folks who immediately 
came to mind. Poor Barry.

   I nibbled on the brownie crumbs and 
puzzled over the fax. This fight-with-a-
friend tidbit had to get to the cops. 
Once they knew this, they could question 
Dr. Louis Maxwell. So how did I pop this 
information over to law enforcement 
without getting myself into big-time hot 
water?

   I started working on the Stockham 
lunch. Shane and I had done the contract 
at the end of March, when he'd shown me 
his sumptuously furnished home, including 
a damask-and-chintz dining room and 
glassed-in garden room. Did he know back 
then that he was about to be evicted from 
the mall? I didn't have a clue.

   I stared at the list of dishes.

   Shane had wanted at least some of the 
food to be in the shape of electronic 
equipment, he'd told me. He'd shown me a 
few gadgets, and I of course knew what 
Arch's collection of electronic marvels 
looked like. No matter what the thing 
did, I decided, it either resembled a 
remote control or a pancake. For this 
reason, we'd decided on a first course of 
Asian dumpling soup, with the dumplings 
in the shape of portable compact disc 
players. As I was also set to serve 
wonderfully flavorful soup at the 
potential mall tenants' lunch on 
Thursday, I'd already made and frozen 
batches of the oddly shaped dumplings 
during one of my recent fits of insomnia. 
I would defrost them early tomorrow 
before floating them in the boiling 
broth. The broth, however, still needed 
to be made.

   From the refrigerator side of the 
walk-in, I pulled out three vats of 
homemade chicken stock that I'd begun 
defrosting before starting on the jewelry 
event. As it heated, I sliced onion and 
gingerroot, packed fragrant Chinese 
parsley into measuring cups, and 
carefully added them to the steaming 
stock. Within ten minutes, rich scents of 
the Far East wafted through the kitchen.

   Shane had also requested three gourmet 
salads, to be served plated. I groaned. I 
needed to talk to Liz Fury, to make sure 
she could work the lunch with me. As we 
worked, we could visit about all that had 
happened. Since I knew she would still be 
working the wedding reception, I put in a 
call to her home. "Please give me a ring 
about the Stockham party, " I implored.

   While I was cooking the shrimp for the 
Today-Only Avocado-Shrimp Boats, Tom 
unexpectedly showed up.

   "I thought you were swamped," I 
exclaimed with more surprise than I 
intended. I turned off the whirring food 
processor and gave him a hug. "It's only 
four o'clock."

   He chortled. "Afraid I've been fired, 
Miss G.? And that's why I'm home? 
Actually, I . . . just decided to 
delegate that work. Anyway, I've been 
thinking about cutting back to half-time, 
since my wife is making so much dough 
with her catering business. And this way, 
I can go get Arch, if you want."

   I smiled in spite of myself, pulled 
away, and poured the sweet-sour dressing 
for the shrimp into a large jar. "I . . . 
I went to see Julian," I confessed. "I 
know you and Hulsey both said not to. But 
I was too worried."

   "See what I mean?" Tom replied, with a 
grim smile. "If you're not in a mess, you 
make one."

   "He looks awful," I continued. "Plus, 
I was wondering if the lounge videotapes 
showed any conflict between Page Stockham 
and her sister, Pam Disharoon, or between 
Shane Stockham and Barry Dean . . ." I 
stopped talking, suddenly suspicious. 
"Tom, won't you please just tell me why 
you're home so early?"

   "We-ell, since I shoved my work onto 
others, and since I'm not assigned to the 
Dean case, I got to worrying about my 
recently injured wife, and wanted to see 
if she needed help - "

   I turned back to the shrimp, now a 
tantalizing pink in their lemon-and-herb 
bath. "I'm fine."

   "Touchy, touchy. Maybe you don't want 
to hear this, either, but I think that 
even though I'm home, you should still go 
pick up Arch today. He's worried about 
you."

   "About his new guitar, you mean. Now 
wrecked and in police custody."

   "Look, I called down to Westside 
Music, and they're going to phone their 
other stores to see if we can get another 
one."

   "Uh-huh."

Today-Only Avocado-Shrimp Boats

10 ounces thoroughly washed chilled inner
  leaves of a head of romaine lettuce
3 ripe avocados
30 cooked, shelled small to medium-size
  shrimp, chilled
9 ripe cherry tomatoes, chilled
1 cup Champagne Dressing (recipe follows)

   Prepare the salad just before serving.

   Tear the romaine into bite-sized 
pieces and make a bed of them on a 
serving platter.

   Carefully peel the avocados, discard 
the pits and skin, and cut the avocados 
into halves. Trim a small disc from the 
bottom of each avocado half so that each 
one sits flat. Arrange the avocados, cut 
side up, on the bed of greens. Arrange 5 
chilled shrimp in a sunburst pattern in 
the hollow of each avocado half. Halve 
the cherry tomatoes and arrange them 
around the avocados.

   Generously pour the Champagne Dressing 
over the shrimp-filled avocado "boats" 
and tomatoes. Serve at once.

Makes 6 servings (1 "boat" per person)

Champagne Dressing:
1/3 cup sugar
1/3 cup best-quality champagne vinegar
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
½ teaspoon ground celery seed
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper ½ 
medium-size onion (3 to 3 1/2 ounces),
  cut into eighths
3/4 cup canola oil

   Into the bowl of a food processor 
fitted with the metal blade, place the 
sugar, vinegar, mustard, celery seed, 
salt, pepper, and onion. Process until 
the onion is completely pulverized, then 
slowly dribble in the oil, processing 
until thoroughly emulsified. The dressing 
should not be kept more than 3 days.

   "Miss G., would you come back over 
here, please?"

   I drained the first batch of shrimp, 
put down the sauté pan, and walked into 
his open arms. He gently held me as he 
asked, again, how I was doing.

   "Not so hot."

   "Explain."

   "I feel responsible for Julian." My 
voice wobbled treacherously.

   "I feel - helpless, and you know how I 
hate that."

   “Excuse me, Wife, but I've never seen 
you helpless."

   "Thanks for the vote of confidence, 
Husband."

   He glanced over my shoulder at the 
counter. "How about if I make us 
enchiladas? Would that make you feel 
better?"

   I actually laughed, then pulled away 
from his embrace. "Sounds wonderful. But 
Tom, there's something I need to tell you 
first."

   "You mean besides the fact that you 
visited Julian against orders? I don't 
think I should hear this."

   I began shelling the shrimp while he 
washed up and readied the enchilada 
ingredients. Had I turned over the faxed 
pages so he wouldn't see them? I couldn't 
remember. "Well, it's like this. I've 
sort of been looking into this whole 
thing - "

   "Yeah, so I gathered. Sounds more like 
you've been snooping around. Maybe I 
don't want to hear this - "

   "Somebody called here a while ago, 
didn't leave a name. Said I needed to 
look into why Barry Dean had such 
terrible headaches. I saved the message. 
Anyway. Then I, uh, learned that a friend 
of Barry's pushed him down a while back. 
After the fall, he had such bad headaches 
that he had to take prescription 
painkillers."

   Tom considered the pan in front of 
him. The corn oil he'd heated to soften 
the tortillas sputtered. He lowered the 
first golden disk into the pan, flipped 
it, and laid it in a nest of paper 
towels.

   Finally he asked, "And a prescription 
for painkillers after having fallen 
during this fight with a friend is 
significant because. . . ?"

   "Well, I just thought if you cops 
could find who called here, or who the 
friend was that pushed Barry down, you 
might find out who killed Barry."

   My ever-observant investigator-husband 

swept his eagle eyes over the kitchen. 
Then he washed his hands, moved down to 
my computer, and turned over the pile of 
faxed pages.

   "Kee-rist. How in the hell did you get 
these from a - " he raised a bushy, sand-
colored eyebrow at the letterhead, "from 
Barry Dean's doctor?"

   "That's one thing you really don't 
want to know."

   He groaned, then said, "OK, Miss G., I 
will pass this on to the guys working the 
case - "

   "Please don't give them those other 
pages, OK?" I imagined Hulsey's furious 
face as he thrust the faxed report in my 
face, demanding to know how long I'd 
fraudulently worked under the alias of 
Dr. Shoemaker.

   "Don't worry," Tom reassured me. "But 
I have to warn you, whoever shoved Barry 
down probably was not a 'friend.' People 
lie when they go to the doctor. 'How many 
cigarettes do you smoke a day?' 'Oh, 
doc,' says the pack-a-day smoker, 'maybe 
two or three.' 'Who pushed you down and 
caused these headaches?' 'A friend.' 
Yeah, right. And especially with our Mr. 
Dean being as secretive as he was, he'd 
lie more easily than he'd tell the 
truth."

   "Oh-kay," I said, as I peeled fresh 
Bosc pears for the next salad. "I just 
thought knowing more about that fight and 
those headaches might help Julian."

   Tom listened to the tape with the 
anonymous message several times. He did 
not tell me what he planned to do about 
it. After that, he and I worked side by 
side, but mostly in silence, for the next 
half-hour. When I finally asked if he had 
found out any more about the Dean case, 
he shook his head. He did remind me, 
however, that because Julian's 
fingerprints were on the murder weapon, 
he would face arraignment no matter what.

   "How can they charge him on so little 
evidence? Who made that nine-one-one call 
alerting the police to Barry's murder, 
anyway?"

   "They've listened to it a hundred 
times. It was from a pay phone I outside 
Prince and Grogan. They can't even tell 
if it was a high-voiced man or a low-
voiced woman." He shrugged. "If something 
comes along to clear Julian, he'll be 
out."

   "Somehow I don't feel reassured."

   "Miss G. What we do know is that 
someone tried to mow Barry Dean - and you 
- down, and didn't succeed in killing 
him, and then someone knifed him, and did 
succeed in killing him. And that person 
left evidence of himself or herself 
somewhere. We just need to find it," he 
concluded. I was thankful he hadn't added 
a comment about needles or haystacks. 
"That's we meaning the sheriff's 
department, Miss G. Not we as in Goldy, 
Marla, and Tom. OK?"

   "Of course," I replied sweetly. He 
groaned again.

-10-
   I finished the pears, dropped them 
into a simmering, barely sugared syrup, 
and gave directions to Tom for the 
poaching and finishing.

   Then I grabbed my coat and announced I 
was off to pick up Arch. Tom grinned and 
swore he'd have dinner ready when we got 
back.

   In the gathering twilight, I held my 
husband's smile in my mind as I zipped 
toward Elk Park. Maybe he wasn't too mad 
at Dr. Gertrude Shoemaker, impostor 
neurologist, after all. I knew it irked 
him when I tried to insert myself into 
his cases. . . but I never did it when I 
didn't have some kind of personal stake 
in solving the crime. Someone shoots out 
our window, poisons a client at an event 
I'm catering, or kills a fellow and 
exults when our family friend is arrested 
for the crime - yes, I was going to get 
involved. As they used to say in my 
native New Jersey, Whaddayathink I'm 
gonna do.?

   Darkness blew in along with charcoal 
clouds from the west. The high hills 
covered with pine trees turned to black 
velvet. A whirl of snow fogged the 
windshield; I flipped on the wipers. I 
thought of the scantily clad, hapless 
lacrosse players. Welcome to springtime 
in the Rockies!

   I turned through the massive stone 
gates and gunned the van up the winding 
driveway that led to Elk Park Preparatory 
School. A caravan of four-wheel-drive 
vehicles, their lights on, sped down the 
drive-way in the opposite direction. The 
kids must have been dismissed early. A 
lot of parents actually watched the 
practice, then called the coach later to 
offer unconstructive criticism. I 
wondered if that was why Shane had quit.

   Snow swirled into the parking lot. 
Half a dozen Lexuses and BMW's, their 
engines running, clustered by the pathway 
that came down from the fields. High 
above the lot, by the portable toilet at 
the edge of the fields, a few camel's-
hair-clad parents stamped their feet and 
clapped with mittened hands. Arch would 
die of embarrassment if I even showed my 
face at lacrosse practice, so I stayed 
put.

   And that was how I saw Shane Stockham 
threaten a woman. Again.

   The two figures first attracted my 
attention when they whacked open the 
thick wooden doors of the headmaster's 
house. They paid no attention to the 
resultant crash or echoing bang of 
hinges. Shane Stockham I recognized 
instantly: His stocky body, rigid stance, 
and distinctive gait were unmistakable. 
He wore a ten-gallon hat and a sheepskin 
jacket - de rigueur Colorado wear for the 
upscale wannabe cowboy. Raised voices 
indicated things weren't going well 
between him and his companion, a 
fashionable-looking woman wearing a mid-
calf trench coat and leather boots. A 
twisted Burberry scarf held her blond-
brown hair in place. She walked swiftly 
and gave off an assured, regal air. At 
one point, she stopped by an electric 
lantern to listen to Shane. After a 
moment, she reached out to touch his 
shoulder. He slapped her hand away and 
vigorously told her to shut up. The 
woman, momentarily thrown off balance, 
recovered and yelled at Shane to back 
off. I squinted to see her face in the 
gloom.

 It was Ellie McNeely.

   I groped through my bag for the Mace. 
I clutched it with my right hand and 
vaulted from the van. Shane might 
apologize on the phone all he wanted, but 
if he thought he was going to hurt my pal 
Ellie, he had, as my mother used to say, 
another think coming.

   As I tore across the snow-dusted lot, 
I tried to imagine why those two had even 
been in the headmaster's house. Meetings 
of all kinds were held in the luxurious 
residence, with its real Oriental rugs 
and antique furnishings. But if they'd 
been at a meeting, where were the other 
folks? Ellie's daughter, after recovering 
from her parents' brutal divorce, was one 
of the handful of sophomores in the 
National Honor Society; Shane's airhead 
twin daughters were freshmen. I couldn't 
imagine that both parents had been called 
in by the headmaster because the girls 
had somehow gotten into an argument. When 
I was ten yards away from them, I ducked 
behind one of the Lexuses.

   ". . . trying to tell you that 
circumstances have changed," Shane 
ranted, "and you're not listening!"

   "I am," Ellie retorted, "but you know 
very well that all of the financial 
commitments of the school are made on the 
basis of those pledges. We offer teachers 
positions with fixed salaries. . . Oh, 
Goldy? What on earth are you doing here?"

   The two of them stopped in their 
tracks. Both looked at me curiously as I 
stepped out from the shadow of the Lexus. 
As the snow drifted down, I tried to 
think of what to say. The freezing can of 
Mace was making my right hand ache.

   "Uh," I said, "uh, I just saw you two 
. . ." I fumbled about for words and 
squeezed the Mace can. Shane had backed 
well away from Ellie, and I was unsure of 
what to say or do. At the far edge of the 
lot, someone in a silver SUV honked.

   "Well!" said Ellie. "That's my 
daughter, honking my horn at me. I have 
to go. Talk to you later, Goldy." With 
that, she turned with a sweep of trench 
coat and walked delicately across the 
snow to her van.

   "Ellie," Shane called after her, his 
tone suddenly apologetic - hmm - and 
calm, even cajoling. "Please, Ellie. 
Please think about what I'm saying - "

   "No-o!" she called, making her voice 
sweet. She didn't turn back.

   I tried to give Shane a look that was 
both punitive and sympathetic. I was 
itching to know about their conflict. 
Shane rubbed his eyes, tilted his head 
back, and groaned.

   "Goldy, so, did you get my message 
about tomorrow?"

   His question startled me. I shivered 
as if unexpectedly chilled, tucked my 
hands hastily into my pockets, and let go 
of the Mace.

   Only then did I give him a bright 
smile. Even if I did have more reason to 
be wary of him than ever, Shane, after 
all, was a client.

   "Yes, and I left one for you. We'll be 
there at ten - " I stopped. My God, I'd 
forgotten something. In the bustle of 
last week's events and the commotion of 
the last twenty-four hours, I had 
neglected to obtain Shane's final payment 
for the lunch. I emphatically had not 
received the last six hundred dollars he 
owed Goldilocks' Catering . . . which 
should have been paid five days ago, 
before he'd gone on a jewelry-leasing 
binge with his wife. This was not the 
gratuity, which I would be picking up 
after the event. This was the second 
payment for the food and service. It was 
just the sort of detail that I'd feared 
would slip between the cracks, now that 
I'd become so busy. My heart sank.

   "But," I continued with another 
blinding smile, "I'll need the second 
installment before we can do the party. 
I've got all the food ready.”

   "Look, Goldy, I am extremely sorry for 
what happened yesterday. My wife is . . . 
on medication Things just sort of fell 
apart. We're very enthusiastic about this 
luncheon party, believe me."

   "I need the check, Shane."

   "There are so many things I need to 
talk to you about," he countered 
nervously, cutting his eyes from side to 
side, as if looking for someone or 
something more important to do. "So many 
things that I don't know where to begin . 
. ."

   My hand slipped back into my pocket 
and I gripped the Mace. As Shane rattled 
on about how successful the luncheon was 
going to be, I wondered where he was 
going with this conversation. Make that, 
where Shane was going, period. Tonight 
he'd flailed at Ellie, then he'd asked me 
whether I'd received his message. Then 
he'd refused to address the nonpayment 
issue, and hopped back to yesterday's 
event. My skin broke out in a chilled 
sweat. The only other person who jumped 
from topic to topic like that - to keep 
you off guard - was The Jerk, my ex. And 
he usually started leaping around 
verbally before he punched me in the 
face.

   "I'm enthusiastic, too, Shane!" I said 
as I edged away. The last bunch of 
lacrosse players was straggling down the 
steep path from the now-deserted field. 
It was an idyllic scene. Street lamps 
brightened the parking lot. Slow-drifting 
snowflakes resembled feathers shaken from 
a pillow. Behind the gaggle of athletes 
stumbled Arch. He might be bigger and 
stronger than he'd been at eleven, but he 
hadn't given up his permanent place at 
the back of the line. "Gotta go, Shane. 
Remember the check tomorrow, OK? First 
thing, before we set up."

   To my dismay, he bolted toward me. 
Should I shriek and make a run for it? I 
tightened my grip on the Mace.

   "Look, Goldy. Don't run off, please. 
'Cuz I . . . really want to talk to you. 
It's important, I promise."

   If he was going to tell me that he 
didn't have the money for the party, that 
he'd pay me next week, next month, or 
next year, then I was going to punch him 
in the face, future clients be damned.

   "It's about the mall, you see," Shane 
persisted. "You're such a great person, 
Goldy, I feel as if I really could tell 
you - " He hesitated.

   "Shane, please. I'm getting cold. Tell 
me what?"

   He lowered his voice. "It's about 
Barry Dean."

   I stopped short. I had to restrain 
myself from grabbing Shane by his 
sheepskin lapels and shaking him.

   "What about Barry Dean?"

   "Well, it's just that . . . I don't 
know how much you know about the way a 
mall works - "

   "Look, can you just get to the point? 
My son's waiting for me, Shane."

   He gulped, then brushed melting snow 
off his handsome, square face. His brown 
eyes shone with worry. And guilt? I 
wasn't sure.

   "I got into trouble. I . . . did a bad 
thing, but Barry made it much worse. I . 
. . cooked the books of The Gadget Guy. 
The reason I did it was that once we 
broke a certain level of sales, the 
amount of rent we owed Pennybaker 
International, according to the terms of 
our lease agreement, went way up. With . 
. . Page's shopping problem, and our 
current level of debt, we just couldn't 
pay more rent. Just could not. So. . . 
Barry, who had done next to nothing in 
terms of his promised promotion for mall 
tenants, offered to do a deal. He 
wouldn't evict me if I paid him fifty 
thou up front in cash, off the books, and 
another fifty thou at the end of the 
year. But . . . I couldn't. So he pulled 
the plug on me. There, I said it." He 
paused to take a raspy breath and fixed 
me with his sad stare. "I know you're 
going to ask me did I tell the police 
about this. The answer is no, I couldn't 
do that either. Risk going to jail for 
cooking my own books? Forget it. So I'm 
trying to get into on-line ordering now, 
out of our house. But if any of my 
potential backers - the people who are 
coming to lunch tomorrow - find out I 
messed with the figures at the store, 
they'll run away faster than a herd of 
elk. I didn't cheat anybody, Goldy, I 
just wouldn't pay that mall their 
extortionary demands. And I couldn't 
afford to pay Barry his bribe. I don't 
have that kind of money."

   In the near distance, a car honked. 
This honk came from my van. Arch was 
honking at me.

   "Shane, why are you telling me all 
this?"

   He ran his fingers through his tousled 
hair. "Because I know your young friend 
has been accused of Barry's murder. I 
didn't want you to think I killed Barry, 
in case Barry had told you about our . . 
. conflict. I can't afford negative 
publicity at this point. And I've read 
how you sometimes get involved in these 
cases - "

   "OK, OK. Is this accounting crime what 
you were just talking to Ellie about? 
Because she was close to Barry, too?"

   Shane snorted. "No, we have an issue. 
. . with the school. But being in that 
mall, I saw the way things went. I mean, 
in addition to not doing the promotion he 
promised, Barry was not the most moral of 
guys, you know? He had a woman problem, 
and I think that's why he wanted the 
payoff. To keep up his woman habit. 
Otherwise, he'd have to stay with old 
stick-in-the-mud Ellie McNeely. For a 
while, anyway."

   "Mom!" Arch shrieked. "Come on! Let's 
split! You've got a cell call! I'm 
starving! It's cold! Mom!"

   "I have to go." My thoughts were 
tangled from all the new information. Did 
I believe Shane, or not? I wasn't sure. 
"So you think this fifty thou was for 
him, then, not the mall?"

   "Of course it was for him! What do you 
think I've been trying to tell you here?"

   "Shane, tell the cops all this."

   "You mean your husband?"

   "No, no, Tom's off the case. Anything 

you can tell the cops about Barry will 
help them get the big picture. If you 
have any documentation of what. . . Barry 
did, show it to them." I did not say, 
Documentation of what you say Barry did. 
But I thought it. "Maybe Barry pulled 
this blackmail stuff with other store 
owners. Just call the department and get 
connected with the assigned 
investigators. Please? Believe me, it 
will look much, much better for you if 
you tell the cops what happened. If they 
find out elsewhere, they'll come after 
you."

   "Mom! Goldy Schulz! Come on!"

   Shane pressed his lips together, then 
backed away. Somehow, I didn't think he 
was bolting to a phone.

   My stiff, chilled fingers wrenched the 
driver door open, and I was confronted 

with my son's stiff, chilled face. His 
fingertips pressed hard on the mouthpiece 
of the cell phone.

   "I am so mad at you!" he hissed 
furiously. "First you get my coach to 
quit. Then you come to pick me up, only 
you don't pick me up, because you get in 
a long conversation with my former coach. 
Which is what you always do. Talk, talk, 
talk. So I sit in here. Cold. Waiting. 
Starving. And now we won't be able to go 
home, because you're going to have to 
talk to this person." He thrust the phone 
at me.

   I gritted my teeth. When Arch acted 
like this, I didn't know if he was 
showing the dark side of teenage 
temperament - which seemed to be all 
dark, come to think of it - or if he was 
following a more troublesome path on the 
way to behavior similar to that of his 
Jerk father. The amazing aspect of this 
little speech from Arch was how 
articulate he was when he was enraged. 
Since this was the opposite of his suave 
father, who became obscenely incoherent 
when he was angry, I fastened my seat 
belt and put the car into gear. I was 
not, I decided, going to respond to Arch.

   "I'm so hungry," Arch growled, as I 
put the phone to my ear. I pressed the 
phone into the front of my jacket to 
cover the mouthpiece. "Tom is making 
enchiladas, and - "

   "I don't care!"

   Give up, my inner voice counseled, 
before I reminded him how much he loved 
Tom's cooking. So I did. I piloted the 
van toward the edge of the snow-frosted 
parking lot. Into the phone, I purred 
sweetly, "This is Goldy Schulz of 
Goldilocks' Catering. May I help you?"

   "You must be making a lot of money, to 
put someone on hold on a cell phone for 
seven minutes!"

   I sighed. Just what I needed today, 
one more crab. Tomorrow night I would 
make crab dip.

   "How can I help you?" I suddenly 
remembered the anonymous call I'd 
received earlier. This voice was deep, 
too . . . but I was fairly sure I was 
being bawled out by a female. Still, you 
can't be too careful. "And who are you, 
if you don't mind my asking?"

   "You can come pick up this puppy. 
Barry Dean's basset hound. He's late."

   "He's dead," I countered bluntly.

   "I'm looking right at him."

   I paused. Maybe I needed yet more 
caffeine, even if it was almost 
dinnertime. "Who is calling, please?"

   "Goldy, fer chrissakes," growled the 
husky voice. "It's Darlene Petrucchio. 
You useta come into my store, and that 
kid who useta live with you useta come 
in, too. Darlene's Antiques and 
Collectibles. And what do you mean, he's 
dead? He's sitting on my kitchen floor, 
drooling."

   "Barry Dean is dead," I said, speaking 
very slowly and distinctly.

   "Well, I know that!" cried an 
exasperated Darlene Petrucchio. 

"Otherwise, why would I be calling you? 
Barry called yesterday and said he was 
leaving you his dog. He's late."

   OK. I was driving, one-handed, down 
the slick, snow-covered curves of the Elk 
Park Prep driveway. I couldn't stop to 
talk sense with chain-smoking, raspy-
voiced Darlene of Darlene's Antiques and 
Collectibles, or my son would explode. I 
needed a time-out. I needed to get out of 
this Abbott and Costello routine about 
dogs and dead guys.

   "I can't take care of this hound 
another night!" Darlene shouted, 
coughing. "He howls and cries and he's 
driving Gus and me nuts! Come and get 
him, will you? He's late."

   "Who is late?" I tried again, with 
deliberate loudness, like an a American 
bellowing English at a European.

   "Jesus H. Christ, Goldy! The puppy is 
Late! That's his name!

   Late! How many times do I have to tell 
ya?"

   "Thanks, Darlene!" I sang into the 
phone. Studiously avoiding the word late 
or its cognate, later; I said, "I'll be 
over. . . after dinner. . . say, half 
past seven. Where do you live?"

   "Where do you think?" she shrieked, as 
a dog howled mournfully in the 
background. "Next door to Barry Dean, fer 
chrissakes!"

   To save us further miscommunication, 

she slammed the phone down and broke the 
connection.

   Maybe I could bring Darlene and Gus a 
box of chamomile tea. She seemed to need 
it.

   Regarding the central question now 
running my life, who murdered Barry Dean, 
I now had new input. Barry Dean had left 
me his dog. No question, that would 
really clarify my thinking on this case.

-11-
   I met Tom's hearty greeting at our 
front door by falling into his arms. "I 
need help!" I gargled. The reason I 
didn't add "My son's driving me crazy!" 
was that Arch was right behind me.

   "I've got a glass of sherry waiting 
for you in the kitchen," Tom replied, 
without missing a beat. "Driving to Elk 
Park Prep can be awfully demanding."

   Arch grunted before announcing: "I'm 
starving!" - in case I hadn't recalled 
that crucial information.

   "Dinner'll be ready in less than 
five!" Tom replied, his voice jovial.

   Arch hefted up his backpack, lacrosse 
stick, and bag, and vaulted up the steps 
two at a time. The door to his room 
slammed resoundingly.

   "I can't drink sherry," I told Tom as 
I plodded into the kitchen. "I have to 
drive somewhere tonight."

   "Tell me you didn't take on another 
catering job. Tell me you're going to 
stay and enjoy these enchiladas."

   ."After dinner, I have to go get a 
dog. His name is Late. Wait a second. 
I'll tell you all about it later; while 
we eat."

   Tom smiled, winked, and wisely decided 
not to ask me how I'd become ensnared in 
canine rescue. Instead he peered into the 
oven, nodded approvingly, then removed a 
large pan of fat enchiladas. A thick 
layer of melted Cheddar cheese bubbled 
over the dark, pungent enchilada sauce 
that in turn smothered the rolled and 
stuffed tortillas. Tom called upstairs.

   "Hey, Arch! The enchiladas are done! 
In fact, they're overdone! Next time 
don't let your mother take so long!"

   Arch roared with rage. When Tom turned 
back to the kitchen, chuckling, I said, 
"Don't start. He already blames me enough 
for . . . oh, everything. And please 
don't use the word late. It has to do 
with the dog that I need to go pick up."

   Tom ignored me, which was a good 
thing. Two minutes later the three of us 
were digging into sour cream-topped 
enchiladas bursting with Tom's mélange of 
spicy beef, beans, onions, garlic, black 
olives, and picante. I moaned with 
pleasure. Arch shot me a disapproving 
look which said Even at home, Mom can 
embarrass you!

   My mind returned to the parking-lot 
confrontation between Shane Stockham and 
Ellie McNeely. Later, when Arch had gone 
upstairs to do homework, I would tell Tom 
about it, to get his ideas. In any event, 
I was back to feeling uncomfortable about 
catering at Shane and Page's mini-mansion 
the next day. Maybe I'd feel better if I 
could talk to Ellie and find out why 
she'd argued with Shane.

   When my inner mind shrieked, You're so 
damn nosy, I forked in another delectable 
bite.

   "Anybody talk to Julian today?" Arch 
demanded.

   I recounted the high points of my 
visit to the jail. Tom had also dropped 
in on Julian, but had left when the 
defense lawyer showed up. My son then 
asked when he could go see Julian, and I 
said probably this weekend. Arch's mood 
lightened a bit. This made me think that 
perhaps the cause for his anxiety had not 
been my usual mom-misbehavior, but his 
worry about Julian, who was like a big 
brother to him.

   "I'm wondering," I ventured at length, 
"does anybody mind if we adopt another 
dog for a while?"

   "Uh-oh," Tom groaned.

   Arch, however, brightened. "Sure! I 
can help. What kind of dog is it?"

   "It's a basset hound."

   "Miss G.?"

   "OK, it's Barry Dean's basset hound. 
Barry left it to me."

   "He left it to you?" Tom echoed. 
"We're just now getting his lawyer to 
talk about the will. How could you know 
about what he left and to whom?"

   "His neighbor called. Darlene, the 
woman who owns that used-stuff store on 
Main Street. Apparently Barry called her 
yesterday before he died. Said if 
anything happened to him, I was supposed 
to take care of his dog, who is really a 
puppy. Darlene's going to have a 
conniption fit if she has to have him 
another night."

   Somehow, my wonderful husband absorbed 
and translated this. "Miss G., why do you 
think Barry would ask you to take care of 
his dog? Are you saying he had a 
premonition that he was going to get 
killed, and called his neighbors to make 
provisions for his puppy?" he asked 
mildly.

   Arch, his curiosity piqued now that 
he'd chowed down five enchiladas, raised 
his eyebrows. He'd wanted a second dog 
ever since we acquired Jake, a bloodhound 
who'd been mistreated before we took him 
in. Now Arch saw his chance coming. I did 
not want to ponder what Scout the cat 
would think of another dog adoption, 
however. Things could get ugly.

   "I don't know why Barry wanted me to 
have his puppy," I told my family 
truthfully. "But I really think I should 
go get him."

   Tom mumbled something about letting 
the cops know what I was doing. Also, the 
department would need to find out if 
Barry had said anything else to Darlene. 
I told him the cops could talk all they 
wanted to Darlene, to me, and what the 
heck, to the dog.

   We finished our meal thrashing out 
logistics for the week, who would be 
where when, how the driving would work, 
and so on. Such are the joys of 
contemporary domestic life. Arch and I 
thanked Tom for the fabulous dinner. Tom 
offered to do the dishes, and I accepted 
with gratitude.

   "I'll come with you, Mom," Arch piped 
up unexpectedly as he finished loading 
the silverware into the dishwasher, a job 
he had done without being asked. "I got 
most of my homework done in school. While 
you're driving, I'll take care of the 
dog."

   "Why, thanks, Arch. I'd love your 
help."

   And so off we went.

   "You're late," Darlene announced 
ungraciously as she swung open the door 
of her log cabin. Short, slender, and 
about sixty, Darlene wore an emerald 
green turtleneck and a fashionable-ten-
years-ago black velvet skirt and vest. 
Her salon-dyed light orange hair was 
meticulously arranged in an Annette 
Funicello bubble, and her impeccable-but-
heavy makeup glowed in the light from an 
overhead chandelier made from antlers. 
She looked like a perfectly preserved 
dried apricot.

  "Very late," she added, with the quirk 
of an arched, red-penciled eyebrow.

   I took a deep breath and reminded 
myself to be pleasant. I smiled and said, 
"Let's not use the dog's name, OK? 
Darlene, you remember my son Arch? He 
loves dogs and will help me get Late 
home." From inside the cabin, Barry's 
hound howled so loudly I suspected he'd 
heard me.

   O-woo! O-woo! Get me out of here!

   "C'mon in, he's waiting for you!" 
Darlene closed the door behind us. She 
added, "He's in the kitchen. I had to 
pile some stuff by the door to keep him 
in." A prolonged crash preceded a spill 
of cardboard boxes out the kitchen door. 
A streak of black, gold, and white 
hurtled toward us. "Late!" Darlene 
shrieked, in a voice that would have 
started an avalanche.

   Late paid no attention whatsoever. 
Arch had dropped to his knees as the dog 
rushed us. The bassett bounded up, tongue 
extended, slathering Arch's face with 
kisses. My son, overwhelmed, toppled back 
on his behind. Late howled with 
exultation. Darlene screeched a torrent 
of commands that the puppy ignored.

   "Darlene!" I called over the general 
confusion. "Can you tell me exactly what 
Barry said? You know, when he called to 
tell you about his puppy?"

   Darlene was headed toward the kitchen. 
I followed, and managed to trip over only 
one box upended by the puppy.

   "Here's his food dish, water dish, and 
vitamins," she said, as she dumped 
mismatched plastic bowls and other canine 
paraphernalia into a grocery bag. "He was 
outa Puppy Chow." She whacked the bag 
down beside me on the counter. "All's 
Barry said to me was, 'If I have to go on 
a business trip allova sudden, I want 
Goldy Schulz t'have my dog.' Then he 
asked if I knew who you were, the caterer 
who helps her husband solve crimes, and I 
said yeah, and he asked me to go get the 
puppy right then. I said, 'So yer goin' 
on a business trip, then?' And he says, 
'Maybe.' So I went and got the puppy. 
That was yesterday. I'm tellin' ya, I 
can't go through another night listening 
to him howl and whine. I mean, I used to 
watch Barry's house and the puppy when he 
had to be out of town for a coupla 
nights, but it's not like he left me any 
cash to take care of the hound for the 
rest of his life. I am sorry Barry died, 
though. He was a nice neighbor, if a 
little - Well, you know. Overdosing on 
the social life."

   Out in the hallway, Late's piercing 
yip was giving me a headache. Arch was 
egging him on in Boy's Dog-Speak: Yeah, 
boy, c'mon boy, sit, yeah, roll over; 
yeah! OK, I'II nib your tummy. Bet you're 
hungry, right, boy?

   Overdosing on the social life? "Did 
Barry have many girlfriends?" I ventured.

   Darlene rolled her eyes, opened her 
refrigerator, and popped open a beer. She 
did not offer me one, which was probably 
just as well.

   "Look, I already talked to that 
private dick - "

   "John Rufus?"

   Darlene slurped foam. "Yup, and I told 
him about the bra saleslady - "

   "Pam?"

   "Yup." Darlene tried unsuccessfully to 
suppress a belch. "That's what the cops 
called her when they showed me her 
picture. Blonde who wears her hair in 
sort of a pickaninny?"

   "The very one."

   "Well, she's been over there, too. 
Those two, Pam and Ellie.

   That's all I know about Barry's 
girlfriends. 'Cept he didn't leave either 
one of 'em his dog."

   "Thanks."

   Darlene put down the beer, picked up 
the grocery bag, and shoved it at me. 
Since she couldn't find any puppy food, 
she added, she'd given Late some chili 
last night. He'd seemed to like it.

   "Chili?" I repeated, nonplussed. No 
wonder you were up all night. When 
Darlene raised that thin eyebrow again, I 
hustled back to the foyer. Arch had 
thoughtfully brought along a leash and 
was clipping it to Late's collar. Late, 
panting, twisted his stubby, muscled neck 
to look me over. He was a hefty, short-
haired black hound with a wide, white 
chest and magnificent gold streaks along 
his face. He did resemble Barry's old 
hound, Honey, especially with his red-
rimmed eyelids around large woeful eyes. 
I'm grieving, his countenance seemed to 
say, cheer me up.

   "He's just three months old," Darlene 
explained from behind me. She couldn't 
hide the joy in her voice at the prospect 
of ridding herself of the hound. "Oh, and 
he goes to High Country Vet, so you might 
want to check in over there, you know, 
see if he needs shots or worming or 
something."

   I thanked Darlene and headed out after 
Arch and the puppy to the van. Late's 
enthusiasm for Arch did not extend to 
going in a car, however, and once we were 
all inside, the little dog started 
whining inconsolably. I started the 
engine. The dog wailed even louder.

   "Let me try to calm him down, Mom, 
before you pull out. I brought him some 
smoked pigs' ears."

   "Jake won't be happy you snitched from 
his store of treats."

   At this, Arch launched into more Dog-
Speak: Don't worry, buddy, your new 
brother is going to love you, yeah, 
buddy, Jake’s a big old bloodhound who 
shares everything, et cetera, et cetera. 
I disconnected from Arch's reassuring 
chatter and Late's crying, and studied 
Barry's chalet-style house next door. Two 
sheriff's department cars were parked in 
the driveway. The red police tape that I 
knew was printed with the word Evidence 
had been strung around the house and 
yard. Hmm.

   Barry's house stood out in this 
neighborhood because he'd taken great 
care to make it look handsome. While 
Darlene had continued to paint her home 
an opaque lime green - hip some decades 
ago in Aspen Meadow, like everything else 
about Darlene - Barry had painted the 
gingerbread trim of his dark brown wooden 
house a bright red. Now, the outside 
lights illuminated not only the Swiss-
style abode, but the fresh fall of snow 
in the front yard. The curtains were 
pulled, but a lit interior told me the 
detectives were working.

   Without thinking, I released the brake 
and allowed the van to roll down to 
Barry's driveway. Arch, preoccupied with 
calming the dog, did not notice. Nor, 
apparently, did anyone inside. I powered 
down my window and stared at the house. 
Why did you leave me your dog, Barry? I 
heard no answer to my question but puppy 
whining and the frigid night wind 
sweeping through the pines.

   "Mom!" Arch whispered. "You're 
freezing me out! Late's shivering! Close 
the window, would you?" The dog threw 
back his head and began to howl. "Mom? 
What are you waiting for?"

   We took off. Tom was not at home, 
which puzzled me, but Arch helped me get 
the separate “pet housing area," as we 
called it, ready for our latest guest. 
Because of the catering business, I had 
to be extra careful about keeping the 
animals out of the kitchen. I tried not 
to think of the unsuccessful box 
barricade Darlene had built for Late.

   Late, meanwhile, was getting to know 
Jake out in our fenced backyard. Like 
Barry's yard, ours was blanketed with 
snow. Howls, yips, and growling let us 
know the two canines hadn't quite decided 
to be friends. When Arch opened the back 
door, Jake began to lumber in, but was 
impeded by Late streaking through his 
legs. Arch said he'd calm Jake if I could 
get hold of Late. I quick-stepped into 
the living room, where Late was avidly 
sniffing one of Tom's Oriental rugs.

   "No you don't, buster." I scooped him 
up and hugged him to me, then lowered 
myself into one of the wingback chairs. 
To my surprise, Late turned, perused my 
face, and began to sniff my chin. My 
heart melted at the sight of those droopy 
brown eyes with their pink rims. The dog 
appeared worried. You, he seemed to be 
thinking, definitely aren't Barry.

   "Why did your master leave you to me?" 
I asked him. "From the sound of it, he 
had two girlfriends. Why didn't he leave 
you with one of them? The only thing 
recommending me was that we already had a 
hound. Different kind, though."

   In my lap, Late panted, but said 
nothing.

   "Was it because of the truck 
accident?" I asked Late. "Barry was 
scared because that truck nearly killed 
him as well as me? So he called his 
neighbor and said, 'If I die before I get 
home, give my dog to the caterer'?"

   Late still wasn't in a talkative mood, 
so I just patted him. Arch appeared, 
carrying a tray of homemade dog biscuits. 
Apparently, Late's olfactory glands 
worked as superbly as Jake's, because he 
whirled, jumped off my lap, and tore 
toward Arch. Arch, delighted to be once 
more the center of the basset's universe, 
started feeding him goodies from the 
plate. When the phone rang, I headed for 
it, mostly to prevent myself from 
mentioning crumbs and dog-mess to Arch.

   "I had to finish up something at 
work," Tom reported from his cellular. 
"Apparently my delegating didn't work out 
as well as I'd hoped. Anyway, I didn't 
want you to worry. Did you get the dog?"

   "Yeah, thanks for asking. Arch is 
spoiling him rotten even as we speak."

   "Is he cute?"

   "He's black streaked with gold and 
white, and he has a face frozen in the 
'sad' setting."

   Tom snorted. "Did Barry ever mention 
to you that he wanted you to take care of 
his hound? The detectives are still 
working at his house."

   "Nope. I saw them there, by the way. 
Do you happen to know who's going to 
inherit the place? I don't think Barry 
has any kin."

   "I don't know about kin. One of the 
guys mentioned that Barry had left his 
goods to the ASPCA. It'll be a while 
before they can get the transfer worked 
out, though. Why?"

   I couldn't tell my husband Because I'd 
like to be able to snoop around in my old 
friends house, and figure out why 
somebody stuck a knife in his gut. So I 
just said, "Oh, I need to know what kind 
of food he was giving the dog, that's 
all."

   "Uh-huh."

   I always wondered why I bothered to 
lie to Tom, since he could invariably 
tell when I was skirting the truth. A 
fierce crackle broke our connection 
before I could protest, or even ask when 
he would be home.

   Arch appeared in the hall holding the 
puppy in his arms. Could that be a smile 
on Late's face?

   "I'm going up to finish the last bit 
of homework I've got," my son announced. 
"I'll take care of Late. What kind of 
dumb name is that for a dog, anyway?"

   "I have no more idea about that than I 
do why Barry left him to me." Arch turned 
and started up the staircase, his usual 
clomping replaced by gentle steps. Snug 
in Arch's arms, Late wagged his taillike 
a metronome.

   In the kitchen, I started some milk 
heating for hot chocolate. While I 
stirred heavy cream and sugar into best-
quality cocoa, I listened to the 
answering machine. There was only one 
message, and it was from Heather, the 
weeping mall office secretary. Westside 
was in limbo over the lunch event I was 
supposed to be catering on Thursday. She 
just wanted to give me a heads-up. Super.

   I whisked the steaming milk into the 
cocoa mixture and considered. I had not 
heard back from Ellie McNeely. The 
kitchen clock said it was almost nine. 
Ellie was a friend, so I sipped the cocoa 
and punched in her number. No answer. 
Either she wasn't at home or she wasn't 
picking up.

   Arch appeared in the doorway and said 
he thought Late, who was whining again, 
might need to go out. Hearing Arch's 
voice and the whining puppy, Jake started 
scratching at the door to the pet area. I 
released Jake while Arch held on to the 
puppy with one hand and opened the back 
door with the other. Snuffling wildly at 
Late while giving me occasional confused 
looks, Jake seemed both curious about, 
and disheartened by, our canine orphan. 
Finally Jake loped through the back door. 
Late, howling, streaked after the 
bloodhound. I sensed imminent canine 
combat, although I was confident Jake 
could fend for himself. For the first 
time since we'd arrived home, I caught a 
glimpse of Scout. The cat's green eyes 
peered down at the dogs from his perch in 
a small pine tree.

   I sipped more hot chocolate and tried 
to think. Since the previous night, I 
hadn't made it through a single hour 
without worrying about Julian. This hour 
was no exception, I thought, as I 
finished the chocolate. Just before ten, 
I washed my cup, let the dogs in, and 
settled them into their little room. A 
moment later, Scout scratched at the 
door, and I carefully placed him into his 
feline bed on a shelf above the hounds. 
Then I punched in the numbers for the St. 
Luke's recorded prayer list and added 
Julian's name.

   I was starting up to bed when the dogs 
began to wail. I sighed. Was this what we 
were going to have to listen to all 
night, every night? Outside, someone 
killed a car engine. Oh, good, I thought, 
my spirits rising. Tom’s back.

   But it was not Tom. A timid knock at 
the front door only intensified the dogs' 
howling. I checked the peephole, then 
opened the door.

   Ellie McNeely, her trim figure still 
swathed in the trench coat and scarf in 
which I'd seen her earlier in the 
evening, gave me an apologetic look. Her 
hands fidgeted as she struggled for 
words. What was she sorry about? The 
unannounced visit? The late hour? The 
fact that she had not answered my calls?

   Her hands finally came to rest on her 
lapels. She smoothed her coat and tossed 
her bangs off her forehead. She said, "We 
need to talk."

   "I've been trying to get hold of you."

   "Please, Goldy. I need you to come 
with me. I feel. . . awful." A zigzag of 
emotional pain twisted her lovely face. 
"The cops suspect me. They told me not to 
leave town. They say I need to be clearer 
about my relationship with Barry. What 
about the cuff links? What about this? 
What about that? They want me to give a 
minute-by-minute accounting of where I 
was Monday night. I told them, I went 
home with a friend. Why don't they 
believe me? Are they going to let Julian 
out and send me to jail instead?" Her 
voice cracked. "If you don't help me, I 
don't know what I'll do."

-12-
   Come with you where?" I asked, 
bewildered. If we needed to talk, why 
couldn't we do so in my snug kitchen?

   "For a drive," she replied 
enigmatically. She looked up and down our 
street. A chilly whip of wind slashed 
through the evergreens. Ellie turned back 
to me, stamped her boots, and pulled her 
gloved hands into fists. "Please. It 
would help me so much to talk to you. But 
. . . it just has to be the two of us."

   "It's almost ten o'clock, Ellie. And 
there's no one here but my son. Why don't 
you come inside? I'll make you some hot - 
"

   "Please, Goldy!"

   I pressed my lips together, then 
nodded. Ellie was my friend from both St. 
Luke's and Elk Park Prep. In fact, she 
was one of the only school parents who'd 
ever even been nice to me. Plus, she 
seemed distraught. And if I was going to 
help Julian, I needed to find out what 
Ellie knew. If that meant taking a drive, 
so be it.

   "Let me run tell Arch I'm leaving."

   I sprinted up the stairs and informed 
Arch that Ellie McNeely was here, and we 
were going out for a bit. I'd put the 
pets to bed, I assured him, and Tom would 
be home soon.

   "I don't need a babysitter, Mom."

   OK, it was official. I had had enough. 
"You know, Arch, I wish you would try to 
be a bit nicer to me. Even a tiny bit 
would do."

   "Sorry, Mom. But you are always 
bugging me."

   How was telling him I was going out 
"bugging him"? I didn't know. Lately, it 
seemed as if there were lots of things I 
didn't know. I asked, "Do you want the 
animals up here with you?"

   "I suppose." He threw off his quilt, 
revealing his standard nighttime wear of 
sweatshirt and sweatpants. "That way I 
can take care of the puppy, in case he 
gets scared." He swung his legs over the 
side of the bed and paused, hunched over. 
He struggled for words. "Good idea, Mom," 
he mumbled.

   I'd had a good idea? Where were the 
Guinness people when you needed them?

   While I donned my snow boots, mittens, 
down jacket, and scarf - with the 
temperature in the single digits, the 
wind chill was bound to be horrific - 
Arch shepherded the two dogs up to his 
room. Scout the cat, not surprisingly, 
decided to stay put.

   Ellie sat waiting for me in her new 
SUV, a silver BMW that was the twin of 
Marla's. The car was lovely, but in its 
interior light, Ellie didn't look very 
good. Her expensively colored hair had 
turned waxy, probably from being 
repeatedly raked by her manicured nails. 
Her face, usually flawlessly made up, was 
puffy and still wrought with worry. The 
whites of her eyes were dark pink. From 
crying?

   "I don't suppose you've heard how 
somebody or somebodies are trying to 
smear me?" she demanded as I slid into 
the cold leather passenger seat.

   "I've heard some things. That's why 
I've been trying to call you."

   She revved the engine that she'd kept 
running while I was getting ready. "I 
suppose you heard the story about my 
Lexus being stolen and rammed into 
Barry's car."

   "Yeah. But that was a while ago, 
wasn't it? Barry took me out for espresso 
at The Westside Buzz in his new Saab. He 
loved having a fancy new car, and didn't 
seem too upset about losing his old 
Mercedes."

   "Well, somebody’s upset about it." She 
flipped on the overhead light and handed 
me a typescript clipped to several 
photographs. "I've got a friend who works 
on the Mountain Journal. She got her 
hands on copy they're planning to run 
tomorrow."

   As she piloted her tanklike vehicle 
toward Main Street, I peered at four 
blown-up, grainy photos. The first 
featured Ellie, clad in a tailor-made 
suit, which made her look stern and 
manageresque. The second and third showed 
Barry. In one, he was smooching the cheek 
of a beaming Pam Disharoon, whose 
pigtails bobbed enthusiastically. The 
third photograph of the bunch showed Pam 
whispering in Barry's ear, while he 
sported an impish, cat-who-swallowed-the-
canary grin. The fourth photo was a 
blurry shot of the county coroner's van. 
I turned back to the typescript. The 
caption read: The Man Who Loved Too Much?

   How had the Mountain Journal, which 
demanded that I submit my ads two weeks 
in advance, put together a background 
article so quickly? But I knew the answer 
to that. Gossip, easily obtained in Aspen 
Meadow, sold copy. In our small town, it 
didn't take long to call dozens of 
sources and put together a smutty article 
- full of "alleged's" - that masqueraded 
as news. And with computers speeding up 
typesetting, you could gather enough 
garbage the day after a murder to put 
together a story and still meet press 
deadline.

   I hastily skimmed the palaver, with 
its repeated references to a "love 
triangle." The fact that Julian had been 
arrested for Barry's murder was glossed 
over, and for this, at least, I was 
thankful. I guessed the Mountain Journal 
brains, such as they were, had figured a 
detained caterer's assistant wasn't as 
sexy as two women smitten with the same 
man.

   In the Man Who Loved Too Much article-
to-be, two incidents were detailed, 
beginning with: "Last month, witnesses 
claimed an unidentified woman shoved 
Barry Dean into a ditch on the mall 
construction site," followed by "Mrs. 
McNeely’s allegedly stolen purse" and her 
"allegedly stolen Lexus keys," which had 
ended up with "the Lexus belonging to 
Ellie McNeely somehow getting smashed 
into Barry Dean’s classic Mercedes. The 
Mercedes was totaled" The paper proceeded 
to have a field day with the cuff links 
ordered by Ellie to be engraved for Barry 
being found in the out-of-control truck 
that had almost killed him earlier the 
previous day, only hours before he was 
brutally murdered. Who had been their 
sources on this? How I wished I knew.

   "It's unbelievable," Ellie said, her 
voice just above a whisper.

   Her tone was resigned, despondent. "My 
boyfriend-who-wasn't-quite-my-fiancé was 
infatuated with a lingerie lady. Now he's 
dead, and I'm implicated. I can't even 
grieve, because the cops are showing up 
on my doorstep, at my office, you name 
it. They ask things like, 'After you 
picked up the cuff links, Mrs. McNeely, 
how did you get them into the truck?' And 
worse, 'Have you had medical or military 
training, Mrs. McNeely? Did you learn how 
to stab someone so that they'd be certain 
to die?' "

   "Oh, no."

   "I'm going nuts! I think they're just 
holding Julian Teller until I crack! Then 
they'll arrest me!"

   "OK, first of all," I said, shaking 
the typescript, "forget our local rag. 
People leak stuff to it all the time, 
their own version of how they want 
something to read. The staff never checks 
a single fact, because they don't have 
time once they round up their material. 
How come nobody calls them 'alleged 
reporters'?" I was hoping Ellie would 
laugh, but she didn't. I tossed the 
packet into the backseat and turned off 
the light. We were now chugging past the 
Bank of Aspen Meadow, where the 
thermometer read two below zero.

   Hunched over the steering wheel, Ellie 
shook her head grimly. "Not to be 
materialistic," she went on woefully, 
"but the gold cuff links I bought for 
Barry are in police custody, and I don't 
have that engagement ring Barry promised 
me - "

   "So you were engaged?"

   She squirmed. "Well, not really. We'd 
been talking about it. He told me he had 
a big surprise for me, and he eventually 
said it was ‘the ring I'd been hoping 
for.'"

   "How long ago was this?"

   She shrugged. "About a month? He gave 
me a riddle I couldn't understand, 
though. He promised to help me with it. I 
ordered him a pair of cuff links, and 
paid almost three thousand dollars for 
them. But then I saw him with Pam, in the 
mall, having lunch. He'd told me he had a 
meeting with the Pennybaker people, and 
there they were, acting like lovebirds. 
That's when I hired Rufus."

   "Did you push Barry into a ditch?"

   "No."

   "Do you know why he had headaches?"

   She sighed. "I only knew that he did 
have headaches. He told me he'd been 
fighting with someone who worked in the 
mall. I thought, a fight, like, argument. 
I didn't think he meant a real physical 
fight."

   "You never picked up the cuff links?"

   "My purse was stolen! My car was 
stolen, then wrecked! I had no ID, no 
credit cards, no driver's license! 
Remembering the cuff links was way, way 
down on my list." She sighed, but it came 
out like a sob. "Now the cuff links are 
being held by the cops as evidence in a 
murder. It's like I tried to do something 
nice for a man I believed really cared 
about me, and the whole thing backfired. 
Backfired beyond belief."

   I murmured, "Yeah, it sure did."

   "Dammit, Goldy!" Ellie's voice turned 
strident. "Say something that's going to 
make me feel better! Why do you think I 
came over? I thought Barry Dean loved me! 
And now my life has gone to hell!"

   "Well . . . ," I ventured. "I don't 
know if this will make you feel better, 
but in the You're-Not-Alone Department, I 
was married to a man who, even though he 
was a well-paid doctor, gave me only two 
hundred dollars, in cash, to spend on 
Christmas. Because I wanted him to care 
about me - even though I knew on some 
deep level that he didn't - I spent a 
hundred and fifty dollars of that tiny 
hoard on a Seiko watch. I'd even felt 
lucky to find it on sale! But the Seiko 
wasn't a Rolex, and the day after 
Christmas, I found the watch in the 
trash."

   Ellie managed a wry smile. Then the 
smile turned bitter. "What am I going to 
do? How can I keep little Cameron from 
being humiliated by all this?"

   "Your daughter will be OK," I assured 
her. "She knows you're a good mom." I 
remembered Arch's brusque declaration: I 
don't need a babysitter. "Anyway, Ellie . 
. . Cameron's in tenth grade now. Maybe 
she's not so little anymore."

   "And here I was thinking what a loving 
stepfather Barry would make." She sighed. 
"I'm just worried the other kids will 
read this trashy Journal article and make 
fun of Cameron. I hate to think of those 
Elk Park Prep bitches hurting her 
feelings."

   We whizzed by the lake. Wind-blown 
pebbles of snow pelted the ice. Under the 
bright night lights, a few brave skaters 
were taking advantage of the late burst 
of freezing weather. Just the thought of 
skating made me shiver.

   "Ellie, where are we going?"

   "Well, if you don't mind, we're going 
to Elk Park Prep. I . . . I forgot 
something."

   I knew she was lying. "The school will 
be locked up, Ellie."

   She waved one hand. "Doesn't matter. 
I'll explain when we get there."

   "Speaking of Elk Park Prep, can you. . 
. explain to me why you were arguing with 
Shane there tonight?"

   She exhaled and slowed around a curve. 
"Board business is supposed to be 
confidential."

   "Ellie, I promise, I'm not going to 
get on the phone and call people about 
board business."

   "Shane . . . is having financial 
problems."

   "I know about the eviction from 
Westside." I gnawed the inside of my 
cheek. I know he was holding back on his 
rent. I know his wife has a bad spending 
problem. And worst of all: I know I 
haven't received final payment for this 
lunch I'm doing for him tomorrow.

   Ellie squinted into the darkness. 
"Shane's blaming his problems on Barry. I 
don't believe this story about Barry 
demanding a kickback for ignoring the 
rent issue, by the way. In any event, 
Shane's broke. And in debt. So . . . he 
and Page are pulling their girls from Elk 
Park Prep. They're demanding their two-
thousand-dollar deposit for next year 
back. I tried to explain that we simply 
can't do that. The deposits are 
nonrefundable. But you saw how Shane was 
tonight; he wouldn't listen. If you heard 
about the car accident, you probably know 
how Page intercepted his loan money."

   "I do."

   "I can't bend school rules for him. I 
can't help him at the bank, either. But 
he just refused to believe that I can't."

   We pulled through the school's massive 
stone gates. Elegant street lamps lit the 
drive like luminarias. The BMW rolled 
smoothly over the snow-rutted road.

   "What's bothering you most, then?" I 
probed gently.

   She exhaled again before replying. 
"Bothering me most? You mean apart from 
the fact that a man I loved and was 
hoping to marry might have been betraying 
me, but we'll never know because now he's 
dead?"

   "Ellie - "

   "Let's see. The cops aren't making my 
life easier. I've told them over and 
over, I hired Rufus because I thought 
Barry was cheating on me. Whether he was 
having a bona fide affair with Pam or was 
just infatuated, having a mental fling, 
Rufus never did find out. That's what's 
so funny! But those detectives are 
obsessed. I told them I was having a 
massage when somebody tried to drive over 
Barry. They don't listen. I swore Marla, 
Page, and I left Prince and Grogan just 
before nine, but they won't let go of it. 
I got a ride home with Elizabeth 
Harrington. So what? The cops just keep 
insisting and poking into my life. OK, 
here we are."

   We drove into the parking lot we'd 
just left a few hours earlier. Lights 
rimmed the asphalt and lit the sidewalk 
angling steeply up to the lacrosse 
fields. The place looked desolate and 
forlorn. Ellie reached for the door 
handle, then hesitated.

   "Ellie, where are we going? The 
headmaster will be fast asleep."

   She gnawed her bottom lip and 
hesitated. "Apparently, there's some 
evidence that will clear me. Somebody 
called, said they'd leave it for me at 
the lacrosse field. And I don't know who 
it was, so don't ask."

   "Said they'd leave evidence at the 
lacrosse field?" Was this like Barry 
leaving me his puppy? "Who left evidence 
at the lacrosse field?"

   "I don't know."

   My eyes followed the shadowy sidewalk 
up to the dark, bleak playing field. 

Under dimmed lights, the empty bleachers 
looked like the skeleton of some 
prehistoric beast. The portable toilet 
looked like a gloomy, abandoned outpost.

   I asked, "Why not leave this evidence 
at some warm, populated place like the 
library, for crying out loud? Why not 
give it directly to the police?"

   "Who knows? Look, you can see that 
there's nobody up there. We'll just run 
up and get it." Ellie popped open her 
glove compartment. I was thinking she'd 
be reaching for a flashlight, but no. Her 
hand emerged with a small twenty-two, a 
woman's gun.

   "Oh, Ellie, no." As much as I was 
curious about what someone might have 
left for Ellie, I didn't want to be a 
part of anything involving a gun. "This 
is ridiculous. The sun will be up in, 
what? Six hours? Seven? We'll go get the 
'evidence' then. Let's go home."

   Ignoring me, she grabbed her cell 
phone with her free hand and stuck it 
into her coat pocket. Still gripping the 
ugly little gun, she said, "I told you, 
Goldy, I'm desperate. Let's go before 
this wind blows whatever it is away." She 
inhaled, gripped the pistol, and slipped 
from the car.

   Crap, crap, crap. Why had I come out 
with her in the first place? And why 
couldn't she be a liberal and believe in 
gun control? I powered up my own cell and 
hit the automatic dial for Tom's phone. 
If he was at the department or at home, 
it would be on. If he was between the 
two, we might be out of range. When the 
messaging service answered, I cursed 
silently. Then I announced that I was at 
Elk Park Prep with Ellie McNeely, and 
that if we weren't back by eleven, come 
get us. While Ellie stamped her boots and 
gestured impatiently to me with the 
pistol, I reached into my bag and pulled 
out the Mace. Did everyone in Aspen 
Meadow carry a weapon? I followed her, 
but didn't feel a bit comfortable.

   The wind died for a bit as our feet 
crunched over the snow of the parking 
lot. Ellie glanced around; I kept my eyes 
on the field. On the bleachers, I could 
just make out a pile of lacrosse sticks, 
loaners the school kept on hand for 
practice. A crumpled athletic bag sat 
atop the players' bench, abandoned or 
forgotten. Then again, maybe it contained 
evidence that would clear Ellie of 
innuendo. . . or murder.

   "Actually," Ellie said, with a nervous 
laugh, "this is sort of like one of 
Barry's little games. You know, follow 
the clues."

   The wind picked up again, and I 
shivered inside my jacket.

   "Heather the receptionist told me you 
hadn't been able to find the engagement 
ring."

   "Heather told you?" she asked, shaking 
her head. "What, was Barry so embarrassed 
by my stupidity that he laughed at me 
with his secretary?"

   "I . . . I don't know." Actually, it 
did sound sort of smarmy, as if Barry not 
only had been playing games with Ellie, 
but looking down on her as well. He'd 
even made jokes about her behind her 
back.

   We climbed over a plow-made drift at 
the edge of the lot. Ellie tried to make 
her voice cheery. A cover for fear?

   "The clue for the ring went something 
like, 'When we fight, and then we . . .go 
to bed, that’s how you'll find your 
ring.' So I thought it had to do with sex 
or foreplay, and I ripped through sheets 
and box springs and pillows, with Barry 
laughing the whole time. I never found 
any ring."

   I slipped on the ice, dropped the 
Mace, and grabbed for the handrail at the 
side of the walkway. I also cursed Barry 
Dean, because it looked as if he'd poked 
almost relentless fun at a woman he 
supposedly was committed to.

   "You all right?" Ellie asked.

   I grabbed the rail. "Let's rest for a 
sec."

   "Sure. Anyway, I wanted to believe he 
was sincere," Ellie went on. Her breath 
was coming out in steaming gasps. "I 
believed I'd find the ring eventually. So 
that's why I bought him the gold cuff 
links and left them to be engraved."

   "You left them to be engraved, and 
then what happened?"

   She sighed. "I tucked the jeweler's 
receipt into my purse, bought a cup of 
coffee, and sat down by the tot lot. That 
was when the purse was ripped off. In the 
mess that followed, I spaced out about 
the receipt. Not very smart, huh?" She 
paused. All was silent, except for the 
wind rushing through the trees above the 
playing fields. "Later, when the cops 
were trying to cut a deal with Teddy 
Fury, that teenage brat admitted he'd 
stolen my purse along with twenty or so 
others. He claimed he dumped it - he 
remembered the Louis Vuitton pattern, and 
was afraid of being caught with it - 
after taking the cash.

   According to Teddy, somebody else must 
have picked my purse out of the Dumpster, 
and lifted my car keys and the receipt. 
Just like later that same day, Teddy 
claims, somebody else crashed my car. 
Later in the week, Teddy also swears, 
somebody else used the receipt to pick up 
the cuff links. Then whoever did that 
conveniently placed the cuff links in 
that damn truck." Her eyes watered as she 
smiled at me. "Are you ready to go?"

   We made our way slowly up the 
sidewalk. I had a new appreciation for 
all the walking Arch had to do in a day. 
And he carried a heavy bag.

   "What do you think?" Ellie demanded, 
when we were halfway up the steep ascent 
to the field.

   "I think my lungs are going to burst."

   "What do you think about Teddy Fury's 
story?" Ellie seemed determined to 
downplay the fact that we were out in the 
freezing wind, at night, chasing after 
elusive evidence on a deserted school 
field. Fine. We soldiered on.

   "What about the jewelry clerk?" I 
asked. "Did he remember the person who 
picked up the cuff links?"

   "Nope. And whoever it was didn't have 
to sign anything. The clerk who handed 
over the cuff links looked at a sheriff's 
department photo of Teddy Fury and said 
Teddy wasn't the one."

   We were finally at the bleachers. 
Gusts of snow swirled up and around the 
field. Only two halide lights, one by 
each net, lit the shadows. Ellie traipsed 
in front of the bleachers, which held 
nothing but the sticks, and then over to 
the players' bench, where she set down 
her pistol and dumped out the contents of 
the bag. Socks, Gatorade bottles, a 
jersey, pads, and a book fell onto the 
snow. Ellie stooped and pawed through 
them, then straightened.

   "Nothing!"

   Surprise, surprise. "Let's go. We can 
- "

   "Oh, wait." She picked up the gun and 
pointed it at the toilet. I peered at the 
battered metal door. A manila envelope 
had been taped to it. Manila envelopes, 
Barry's old trademark. Ellie quick-
stepped toward it. Reluctantly, I 
followed.

   "This says, 'Evidence is inside'!" she 
cried in dismay, as she noisily ripped 
the packet off the door. "Dammit!" 
Wrenching the door open with her free 
hand, she stuck her head inside. A second 
later, she stepped closer to get a better 
look.

   Then she shouted and disappeared.

   "Ellie!" I cried, scrambling toward 
the toilet. "Ellie!"

   "Goldy!" Was she struggling with 
somebody? My whole body was braced, 
hoping against hope not to hear a 
gunshot. "Goldy!" Her voice sounded as if 
she was at the bottom of a chasm. 
"There's no floor in here! Don't step 
inside! It's just all . . . blech!"

   "Ellie!" I was at the toilet door, 
which I swung open recklessly, concerned 
only about Ellie. I looked inside. The 
smell was unbelievable. I could not see 
her. "Ellie?" I wailed. "Where are you?"

   "I'm waving at you."

   I saw only blackness. I blinked and 
squinted. It didn't help. Ellie's voice 
said, "I'd guess I'm about eight feet 
down. It's an extra large tank that the 
school bought to save money."

   I didn't say, But what happened to the 
damn toilet? What happened to the floor? 
Instead, I told Ellie: "Wait. I'm going 
to go bang on the headmaster's door. 
He'll be able to call for help."

   Before she could reply, I skidded back 
in the direction of the walkway. Five, 
ten minutes at the most, I would have her 
out of there.

   Then I heard a car. . . but saw no 
headlights. The car sounded as if it was 
slowly winding up the school driveway, 
approaching the lot. Was it possible that 
it was Tom? Could he have received my 
message? I doubted it.

   And where were the car's lights? Why 
would you drive around in the dark 
without lights?

   "Somebody's coming!" I croaked.

   "Oh, no! They said to come alone! They 
don't know you're here!" Her voice was 
getting hysterical. "Goldy!"

   I watched carefully. I finally made 
out a vehicle that had almost reached the 
parking lot. One of the lights along the 
driveway briefly revealed it as a small 
four-wheel-drive vehicle. It was not Tom.

   Ellie had been lured here, and she'd 
stepped into a trap. My instinct told me 
whoever this was approaching in that dark 
car wasn't here to help. I skittered back 
to the portable toilet and pulled the 
door completely open.

   "OK, pay attention," I called into the 
darkness. "Do you have your cell phone?"

   "Yeah." Her voice was hoarse. "And the 
pistol."

   "Press a button on your cell phone so 
I can at least see a little light. I need 
to know where you are."

   A tiny square of green glowed a foot 
out of reach. In the sickly light, I 
could just make out Ellie's face.

   "Hand me the gun!" I commanded. Not 
that that would do much good. The two 
times I'd been with Tom at target 
practice, I'd completely missed the paper 
man with the concentric circles around 
his heart. But I knew how to ease off a 
safety. And I knew how to make a lot of 
noise.

   I lowered myself to my knees, then lay 
flat. Ignoring the stench, I inched 
forward until my shoulders were over the 
pit. There were sloshing sounds as Ellie 
moved below. The car roared into the lot.

   The stench was horrific, the air 
frigid. I took shallow breaths while 
reaching for the pistol, which Ellie 
pressed into my hand. Once I had it, I 
eased upright.

   "Whoever got me to come here isn't 
expecting you," she warned desperately.

   "Yeah, yeah," I said as I scrambled to 
my feet. I hid most of my body around the 
far corner of the portable toilet, and 
only stuck my head out far enough to see 
the parking lot. The small four-wheel-
drive was slowly circling Ellie's car. "I 
need you to yell for help!" I commanded 
Ellie.

   "Help!" Ellie shrieked obediently. 
"Help!"

   Far down in the lot, the vehicle 
stopped. It idled by Ellie's car.

   Were any of its windows open? I 
couldn't tell.

   "Again!" I whispered.

   Ellie screamed, "Help! Come and get 
me! Help!"

   Moments later, the driver-side door of 
the new SUV swung open. A figure in a 
long, hooded coat emerged. Tall? Short? 
Fat? Thin? Impossible to tell from way up 
on the field. Whoever it was cast a 
glance up at the portable toilet and 
headed across the lot toward the path.

   "Do a man's voice," I urged, "like 
you're coming to help!"

   "OK, Ellie," she bellowed in a 
surprisingly convincing bass, "I'll be 
right there!"

   "Me, too!" I hollered. Then I held the 
gun out and fired. One, two, three shots 
exploded.

   The figure froze and glanced up.

   "I think I got him, Ellie!" Ellie's 
bass voice boomed out from the toilet 
tank like a whale's. "He's not going to 
bother you!"

   I let out a high cackle and fired 
another shot. The figure trotted back to 
its car, hopped in, and gunned the motor 
to get away.

   I put the safety back on the pistol 
and stood stock-still, shivering 
uncontrollably. It wasn't from the cold.

   After a moment, I called down to 
Ellie, "Our visitor's gone." Ellie began 
to cry. "OK," I said, with a matter-of-
factness I wasn't sure I was feeling. 
"Let's rescue you! How are you doing?"

   "I don't know whether it's worse to 
freeze your butt off or be asphyxiated!" 
she sobbed. "Please, please, get me out 
of here!"

   I peered into the darkness, and tried 
to come up with some idea of how to 
rescue Ellie. The wind had picked up 
again, and my eyes began to tear.

   "OK!" I called. "I'm going to go get 
the headmaster!"

   "No!" she yelled. "That'll take 
forever! You know that lacrosse bag? It 
had a pocket knife in it - "

   I squinted at the upended athletic 
bag. OK, got it. I set the gun down, then 
moved quickly over the ice and snow. I 
rummaged through the bag's detritus, and 
finally closed my freezing fingers around 
a Swiss Army knife. I gasped out steam 
and moved to one of the lacrosse goals, 
where I sliced, chopped, and hacked to 
free the net from its moorings. Once I 
had an armful of netting, I closed the 
knife and hustled back to the portable 
toilet. There I twisted the white nylon 
into a makeshift rope and tossed one end 
down to Ellie.

   Gripping the jerry-rigged line, she 
climbed up as I tugged with every iota of 
strength I possessed. I groaned and 
strained, but kept pulling until Ellie 
heaved herself up from the pit. Once out, 
she gasped for mouthfuls of clean air.

   We hobbled back down to Ellie's car. 
Ellie's coat, clothes, and boots smelled 
terrible. She stripped down to her 
underwear in the bitter wind and jumped 
into one of her daughter's spare 
sweatsuits. Shivering and crying, she 
revved the engine to drive me home.

-13-
   On the way back to my house, Ellie 
calmed down, and we talked in earnest. 
Yes, someone had deliberately lured her 
to that field and that hole. Yes, she was 
in danger. When she left me off at home, 
she promised to take Cameron out of 
school and stay someplace safe, "until 
this whole thing blows over." She would 
call both Marla and me when she was 
settled, and give us her number. And yes, 
she had to let the cops know where she 
was, too.

   "Thank you so much for coming 
tonight," she said. Her voice quavered, 
and her face was still pale with worry. 
"Oh, Goldy, I'm so sorry - "

   "It's OK. Take care of yourself, 
Ellie. And don't forget to let me know 
where you and Cameron are."

   Tom was putting on his boots when I 
stomped through the front door. "Miss G., 
I just got your message. What happened?"

   I gave him an abbreviated version of 
the night's events, then begged to take a 
shower. He said he would call the 
sheriff's department to examine the 
toilet and lacrosse field. It might or 
might not be attempted murder, he added 
somberly, but we were definitely looking 
at criminal mischief. Technically, the 
lacrosse field was a crime scene.

   Great, I thought, as I stumbled up to 
steaming hot water and lots and lots of 
soap. Now Arch was really going to love 
me and be more polite.

   Some time later, I snuggled up next to 
Tom's warm body. His smooth, pine-scented 
skin felt heavenly.

   "The dogs are in with Arch," he 
whispered.

   "I know. I told him it was OK. You 
know how he loves dogs. And at least Late 
isn't howling. He must feel protected by 
Arch and Jake." Tom was silent. "Why am I 
talking about a basset hound?" I said. "I 
just rescued a friend from a frozen 
toilet tank, for crying out loud!"

   Tom's laugh shook the bed. He enclosed 
me in a bear hug, then planted a 
passionate kiss on my neck. And that was 
just the beginning.

   Lovemaking, like food, can be 
wonderfully healing.

   Wednesday morning, an even stronger 
icy wind battered the house and shrieked 
through the trees. Brilliant pink clouds 
shone along the eastern horizon. I'd 
lived in Colorado too long not to know 
this was a winter storm front announcing 
itself. I made French toast for Tom and 
Arch. While Tom was rinsing the dishes, 
Arch offhandedly lifted his shirt to show 
me his tattoo.

   "All the lacrosse guys have 'em," he 
explained. "And sometimes they come in 
handy in identifying corpses, Tom told 
me."

   "Arch, please. A mom would like to 
start the day knowing her son is focusing 
on school, not corpses."

   "Oh!" he said, brightening. "That 
reminds me. Todd is going to pierce my 
ear so I can wear one gold earring."

   My stomach turned over. "Please, Arch. 
Please don't pierce your ear." I was 
suddenly desperate for another espresso. 
"Isn't it time for you guys to take off?" 
I asked, trying not to sound exasperated.

   "Yup!" Tom said with cheer, as he put 
on his jacket and Arch hoisted his 
backpack.

   "Don't you want your lacrosse 
equipment, buddy?" I asked. Then I 
remembered that they'd be missing a goal, 
the one I'd hacked to pieces. Plus, the 
snow-covered field was about to be turned 
into a crime scene.

   Arch sighed. "There's no lacrosse 
today. You're one of the moms taking us 
on the field trip to dissect a cadaver at 
Lutheran Hospital. Don't you remember?" I 
rubbed my forehead, baffled. "You were 
going to pick up Todd and me and a couple 
of other guys in the parking lot at four. 
Are you still going to be able to do it, 

or should Todd call his mom to take 
over?" His tone said that he suspected I 
would once again let him down.

   "I will be there," I promised through 
clenched teeth. As Tom hustled Arch out 
the door, I pulled myself a triple shot 
of espresso and took a long sip. 
Heavenly. Before starting to cook, 
though, I turned my attention to the 
animals. I brought Jake's and Scout's 
bowls in from the deck, filled them with 
food and water, and put the dishes back 
outside. On the deck, I stared down in 
confusion at two of my Minton bone china 
bowls, now crusted with dog food and ice. 
Arch had either ignored or forgotten the 
bag from Darlene, and had poured some of 
Jake's food into my expensive china bowls 
to feed the puppy. Shaking my head, I 
filled the china bowls with soapy water, 
then reached into the grocery bag from 
Darlene that held Late's dishes.

   I pulled out one, then the other. When 
I felt tape on the dish bottoms, I 
casually turned each over, then gaped at 
them in disbelief. When I recovered, I 
put them down carefully and filled some 
old bowls of ours with more of Jake's 
food for Barry's puppy. When all the 
dishes were outside, I called the 
animals. Scout was, as usual, no place to 
be seen, but Jake and Late came bounding 
over and began gobbling.

   Back inside, I put in a call to 
Darlene Petrucchio. I kept staring at the 
two dishes she'd given me. They both 
looked as if she'd hastily applied 
masking tape to them, then penned in the 
name.

   "Darlene!" I said when she picked up. 
"It's Goldy Schulz - "

   "It ain't even eight in the morning! I 
don't wanna hear what you gotta say! I 
ain't takin' that hound back!"

   "Darlene, please. This is very 
important. Did Barry Dean tell you to 
write the puppy's name on the bottom of 
these two dishes?"

   "What? Lemme get some coffee." I 
waited, then asked her my question again.

   "Yeah, yeah, he told me to write the 
name just the way he spelt it. He said 
tape it on the dishes before I gave you 
the puppy. I said, 'Why don't you do it 
yourself?' He just laughed. He said he 
couldn't spell. And I said, 'No kidding.' 
He also said you'd get a kick out of it."

   "Hold on a sec. So has this always 
been the puppy's name?"

   "No, no, no," Darlene corrected me. 
"Barry was going to call him Honey Boy or 
Honey Hound, something like that. But 
those sounded too girly, you know? Or 
maybe it reminded him of his old dogs, I 
don't know. So we just called the puppy 
Puppy. Until Monday afternoon when he 
called. He said jes' to put that name on. 
He said he knew the spelling was wrong. 
But I should just write it the way he 
spelt it, and tape it onto those bowls. 
So I did."

   I thanked her and hung up, troubled. 
The dogs had finished eating, and were 
eager to come in from the cold. I settled 
them in their pet condo and washed and 
dried their dishes. Then I studied 
Darlene's block letters, penned in blue 
ballpoint on masking tape.

   I thought Barry had named the hound 
Late. But staring up at me from both 
dishes was the word LATTE. Latte, the 
coffee drink.

   So. Was this a joke? Or was this 
Barry's little good-bye puzzle to me?

   What had Barry and I had in common? 
Psych class. A love of dogs. Coffee.

   Barry hadn't been a very good 

boyfriend to either Ellie or Pam at 
least, not in my opinion. But he'd been a 
regular old good friend to me once, and 
we'd drunk a lot of coffee together. So 
was Barry saying, Take care of my dog, 
and you'll love him since he’s named 
after a coffee drink? I supposed so.

   It wasn't much, and it was sappy to 
boot. But it made me cry anyway.

   At eight, the phone rang. To my 
surprise, it was Rob Eakin, now acting 
manager of Westside Mall.

   "Sorry to be calling so early," he 

apologized. He sounded hurried. "I'm in 
early, trying to get a million things 
straightened out."

   "What can I do for you?"

   I heard him take a deep breath. "We're 
postponing the Prospective Tenants' 
Lunch," he said timidly. "Ah, 
indefinitely. When there's a crime in a 
mall, potential lessees get cold feet," 
he rushed on. "Half of the prospective 
tenants who were coming to the lunch have 
already canceled. We're expecting the 
rest to be no-shows. And with the 
drainage problem still delaying 
completion of the addition, we don't have 
much to show folks who might want to 
locate here. Frankly, we can't take the 
chance of turning them off permanently."

   My heart plummeted. I tried to take a 
yoga cleansing breath and ended up 
gasping. The twenty pounds of aged prime 
rib in my side-by-side would last two, 
three days at the most. I could freeze 
it, of course. However, the chances of 
finding another client with the same menu 
were slim.

   There was something that worried me 
more, however. With mall traffic down 
because of Barry's unsolved death, and 
with construction on the much-touted 
addition delayed, would Rob Eakin expect 
a refund for the Tenants' Lunch? By 
contract, of course, the money was mine, 
and we were talking over a thousand 
dollars. Despite my new prosperity, this 
was not a sum I could afford to see 
disappear, especially since I'd already 
spent most of it on Arch's trashed 
guitar.

   "You're going to, I mean, do you have 
another date - "

   Rob Eakin sniffed. "We're sorry to be 
canceling within twenty-four hours of the 
event. But you'll have all that food left 
over that you can use elsewhere, not to 
mention a whole day off, courtesy of the 
labor cost we've already paid for." He 
cleared his throat, and a voice in the 
back of my head snarled, Hang up on this 
dolt right now. But I didn't, and Rob 
Eakin raised his voice. "We'd like to 
rely on your honor and have you refund us 
seventy-five percent of our payment."

   "Mr. Eakin. I have also paid for that 
food. In the labor department, my staff 
will expect to be paid, whether they show 
up or not." I inhaled to steady myself. 
"Goldilocks' Catering pays its bills for 
food and labor. We don't want to get a 
reputation for reneging on our 
commitments. In fact, we have an 
excellent reputation for servicing the 
best-heeled clients in both Furman County 
and Denver. Perhaps you've seen some of 
the articles about us in the newspapers." 
When all else fails, threaten media 
exposure. Especially in the Mountain 
Journal.

   Rob Eakin hesitated. "Barry did tell 
me you'd been in the news. We. . . don't 
want you to speak negatively of us." 
Bingo.

   "Oh, no," I replied hastily. "Never."

   "We're . . . actually thinking of 
doing a big Fourth of July event. When 
the mall addition is finally open."

   "Fourth of July?" Nobody wants prime 
rib on the Fourth; they want barbecue. 
Besides, a three-month stay in my freezer 
would burn that beef to toast. And did 
Westside's management really think the 
addition wouldn't be done until summer?

   "Look, Mrs. Schulz." Eakin's voice 
indicated he was backtracking, hopefully 
the length of his entire frigging mall. 
"I . . . I promise you'll be the caterer 
for our next event."

   That sounded fair to me, I said. I 
thanked Eakin and hung up.

   I frowned at the marble counter, 
trying to think. Yes, the full payment 
from Westside had been deposited, and 
yes, I had all this food left over, but I 
didn't like having a big event canceled, 
even if the cancellation wasn't my fault. 
I wondered if it was possible that 
Westside had canceled for a reason other 
than the one Rob Eakin had given. Maybe 
the new mall management didn't want to 
have anything more to do with Goldilocks' 
Catering, what with my assistant jailed 
on suspicion of murdering their manager.

   The phone rang again.

   "It's Ellie," my friend announced.

   "Are you OK?"

   She sighed. "Cameron and I are at the 
Westside Suites. You know it?"

   "Yes." The Westside Suites, not far 
from Westside Mall, were the closest 
thing to a luxury hotel that Furman 
County offered. "You called the police, I 
take it?"

   She snorted. "I had to. . . I'm a 
suspect in a murder case, remember? Even 
though they have Julian in jail, somebody 
in the sheriff's department or county 
attorney's office thinks 'the cuff-link 
lady,' as they now refer to me, had 
something to do with Barry's death. In a 
couple of hours, they're coming over here 
to ask me some more questions."

   "Better phone a lawyer."

   "That's my next call."

   "Please take care of yourself, Ellie."

   "I'm trying." She hesitated. "Thanks 
for being such a great friend, Goldy."

   "I'm trying to be just that," I told 
her firmly. After we signed off, the 
phone rang yet again. I couldn't handle 
any more bad news, so I ignored it. The 
phone rang and rang. The sound 
reverberated dully in my head. Our 
machine finally picked up. The message 
was long. I couldn't face it just yet.

   Time for some coffee and positive 
thoughts, I reflected resolutely. I 
pressed the buttons on two machines: the 
espresso and answering ones. Dark, life-
giving caffeine swirled into a green 
Italian demitasse cup Tom had given me, 
while Liz Fury's voice on my answering 
machine announced that the wedding 
reception had gone well. Her daughter Kim 
had brought her van back, and now she, 
Liz, had just dropped Kim off with her 
new Boulder house mates. If I needed any 
special food supplies - Boulder was a 
mecca for gourmet goodies, and she was 
just leaving - I could reach her on her 
cell phone. Otherwise, she'd be back by 
nine to help with the Stockhams' lunch.

   Just what I needed: more food. But it 
was good of Liz to call. She and I needed 
to have some face time, no question about 
it. We'd had a bit of a spat at the end 
of the mall event, and of course I was 
going to pay her for her work that 
evening, plus double her regular fee for 
bailing me out with the wedding 
reception. But we had to talk. Without 
implying anything, without being rude, I 
needed to know how my new assistant - 
who'd appeared to be flirting with Barry 
Dean in our final strategy meeting - 
really felt about the man who'd barred 
and then forcibly evicted her shoplifting 
son from the mall. Had she actually had a 
date after the event? Or had she canceled 
so she could go off to find Teddy? What 
had happened with Teddy? And how had Liz 
gotten home, since she had no vehicle at 
the mall?

   Worst of all, I thought, as Liz's 
recorded voice continued to speak, was 
this question: Had Liz been so furious 
with Barry that she'd stabbed him to 
death? I shook my head. No way.

   Still, there was lots to find out at a 
single catering event. I booted up the 
menu for Shane Stockham's capital 
investors' lunch. Liz's recorded voice 
kept droning on. It had been snowing in 
Golden to beat hell, she didn't think 
that would slow her up, we needed to 
think about Easter ham dinners to make in 
advance for big clients. . . .

   She stopped talking for a moment. The 
recorded buzz of empty cell-phone 
communication filled my kitchen.

   "Teddy's disappeared," Liz said 
abruptly. "Oh, Goldy, he took his mittens 
but not his damned boots!" Sobbing, she 
hung up.

   I slammed down some of the espresso - 
hot, powerful, and just what I needed - 
then dialed Liz on her cell. She answered 
before the end of the first ring.

   "Liz, it's Goldy, and you're going to 
be fine," I reassured her. "Your son is 
seventeen. He'll survive without boots."

   "Goldy, you don't understand." Her 
voice cracked. "After I . . . found him 
Monday night at a fast food place, I 
called the cops, the way I'd promised 
back when he was . . . first trespassed 
from the mall. I said I'd keep track of 
where he was every minute - "

   "Wait. You mean the security guys 
didn't call the cops to get him hauled 
off somewhere?"

   "I guess they tried, but the sheriffs 
department told the security guys to 
release him outside the mall. I suppose 
they did that, because when I went into 
the security office to find Teddy, the 

guards told me my son had told them he'd 
go to McDonald's. And the cops would 
contact me later. Which they did, but not 
until late Monday night. They. . . came 
to see me about Barry, asked a bunch of 
questions about where I was when, where 
Teddy was when, that kind of thing. 
Before they left, they told me I had to 
keep track of Teddy all the time."

   "Good Lord." Confused, I guzzled more 
espresso. "So. What did happen after you 
left us Monday evening?"

   "I told you." A hint of exasperation 
wended into her voice. "I went to the 
security office, then walked to the 
McDonald's near Westside, and Teddy was 
there, chowing down. He had my little 
car, remember, and I drove him home. 
Yesterday, while I was doing the wedding 

reception, he snuck out! He didn't even 
have a car! I thought maybe he was with 
friends, but then he didn't come home." 
She stopped and gasped for breath. 
"Before he left, he . . . he put on his 
ski mittens that he always leaves by the 
front door. Then he nabbed one of my. . . 
of my carving knives. He proceeded to 
pick-ax his way into a batch of credit 
cards that I'd frozen in a plastic 
container of ice at the back of our 
freezer."

   "Oh, no . . ."

   "He didn't take his boots, so he 
wasn't going snowboarding. I know where 
he was going," she continued, her voice 
bitter. "Shopping. And before you ask, 
yes, I canceled the cards. A couple of 
them, anyway. I think there were about 
eight in there, and all I could remember 
were the Visa and Saks Fifth Avenue - "

   "You don't have to work today," I 
interjected. "I can manage, I promise." 
This wasn't true, of course. With Julian 
in jail and my body somewhat the worse 
for the nighttime excursion to the 
portable toilet, I really did need Liz. 
But she was hurtling over a much larger 
bump on the motherhood road than anything 
I'd been dealing with lately. "No, I've 
got to work," she protested, her tone 
urgent. "I can't just wait for him to 
call, I'll go nuts. The cops have my cell 
phone number. They swore they'd call if 
Teddy showed up. . . or got caught. God, 
I feel awful!"

   "As soon as you get here, I'll fix you 
some breakfast. I'll be fine on prepping 
the lunch." Better than fine, I thought. 
I'd just had an idea.

   "Goldy, you're the best. And I haven't 
even asked how you're doing."

   I thought I could say I'd been feeling 
pretty crappy, but that seemed tactless. 
"Everything's fine. Well, not really. Tom 
told you Julian's been arrested."

   "And I told him how bad I felt. How's 
Julian doing?"

   "Not too good. Liz . . . I thought you 
had a date or something with Barry after 
the party." When she snorted, I said, "Do 
you know anything about Barry's social 
life? I guess I mistook your. . . chat 
with him at our planning meeting as, I 
don't know, interest."

   She guffawed. "No! I didn't have a 
date, although I thought a judge I'd gone 
out with might show up at the leasing 
event, so I dressed up. But he didn't 
show. Let's see, Barry's social life. . . 
well, I thought he was going out real 
seriously with Ellie McNeely. In case you 
wondered why I was being so nice to Barry 
at our meeting, I was trying to get on 
his good side, in case Teddy showed up 
again and made more trouble. Didn't work, 
though."

   "Do the police. . . I mean, are they 
searching for Teddy because he's 
underage, or because he's missing, or - " 
I couldn't finish my own sentence, 
because I knew the answer.

   "They don't look for anyone who's just 
missing until forty-eight hours have gone 
by." The line filled with static; Liz 
must have been driving by some high 
rocks. "They're searching for Teddy for 
the same reason they told me not to leave 
town. Even though Julian's been arrested, 
we're both still suspects in Barry's 
murder." She paused. "Goldy, you're one 
of the few friends I have."

   The line went dead. Well. I hadn't 
felt particularly good since the portable 
toilet ordeal, but now a warm glow 
suffused my senses. I had helped Ellie, 
after a fashion. And now I was helping 
Liz. Arch might think I was always 
bugging him or getting in the way, but at 
least my friends appreciated me. On this 
happy note, I put in a call to Marla, who 
was out. Well, Easter was right around 
the corner. Marla always spent enormous 
amounts of time and money finding clothes 
in the hues of dyed eggs. Then again, 
maybe she was hunting for more gossip 
that could help Julian - to her, this 
would be much more attractive than 
groping in ice-covered undergrowth for 
eggs.

   And speaking of which . . . outside, a 
blinding curtain of snowflakes had begun 
to whirl down. Welcome to spring in Aspen 
Meadow. One year, it had snowed every day 
in May. I pitied Liz driving the narrow, 
winding foothills road between Boulder 
and Aspen Meadow.

   I turned my attention back to the 
Stockhams' menu. The dishes Shane had 
ordered - primarily cold salads - were 
more suitable to the brief spell of 
unseasonably warm weather we'd had back 
in March than to what we were 
experiencing now, that is, the usual 
"Springtime in the Rockies," which was 
basically "Return to the Arctic." Plus, 
what about these extra people I'd heard 
about . . . not from the client?

   I took all the food for the 
Prospective Tenants' Lunch out of the 
refrigerator and placed it on the 
counter. It was possible I had a way out 
of this food mess.

   Making small last-minute changes to a 
menu was a prerogative I reserved. The 
proviso - always explained to clients - 
was that Goldilocks' Catering would make 
up the cost difference if the new dishes, 
necessitated by market, weather, or 
oversight-on-our-part situations, were 
more expensive than those originally 
ordered.

   And speaking of expensive, I wanted to 
ask Shane about these possible extra 
guests, and remind him of his payment 
due. Yes, I had the money from Westside, 
but if I didn't hold Shane responsible 
for his bill, too, then word would get 
out, and all of my contracts would be 
undermined. I fully intended to give 
Westside a huge discount on their next 
catered event, anyway. I just could not 
start doing last-minute renegotiations 
for the number of guests and the 
financial terms of my contracts. If there 
was one thing I'd learned on the business 
side of catering, this was it.

   Eight o'clock was a tad early to be 
calling a client, but Shane was pretty 
Type-A, so I figured he, too, could be on 
his third cup of coffee. I punched in the 
buttons for the Stockham house.

   Shane answered on the first ring. "Oh, 
God, don't tell me you're canceling!" His 
voice shook with dismay. "Sorry! I have 
caller ill, Goldy. The snow's really 
coming down, but I know you'll be OK. 
Problem is, I'm worried now that a dozen 
deep-pocket investors won't want chilled 
food - "

   "A dozen, Shane?"

   He continued, oblivious. "Could you 
whip up another soup? Maybe a French 
onion, with cheese-slathered croutons? 
Page bought some Gruyère last week, I 
think it's still around. Omigod, look at 
this snow. Do you have four-wheel drive 
on your van?"

   "Shane, hold on." I then reassured him 
that the snow was not an issue, except as 
it impacted the menu. "Remember, Shane, 
you booked for six people. Not twelve. 
Six."

   "Oops! I've added half a dozen women, 
didn't I tell you?"

   "You did not. Most caterers would say 
it was impossible."

   "Oh, please, Goldy. I'll pay you more 
than double."

   "You're in luck. I'll do it for one 
and a half times the first rate, provided 
I actually get the payment from you when 
we arrive." He moaned, but I went on: 
"How would you feel about a gorgeous 
prime rib of beef with red wine gravy?"

   "Today? Really?"

   "Yes. But Shane, remember your check? 
I need it before my assistant and I set 
up."

   "Can we barter?" he whined. "I can get 
you some fabulous electronic equipment! 
Wholesale!"

   "Shane!" I closed my eyes. You may 
eventually want to work with this person 
again, I reminded myself. "I need a check 
from you for a thousand dollars before we 
start."

   He lowered his voice. "I've got a 
perfectly nice ruby, sapphire, and 
diamond ring right here in front of me, 
Goldy," he whispered.

   "Over a half carat for each stone, 
flawless quality, great colors. The 
stones alone are worth twelve thousand 
bucks, and that's not even counting the 
fourteen-carat-gold setting. If I don't 
get a check from an investor today, you 
keep the ring."

   I sighed. "Do you own the ring? Or did 
you lease it?"

   He gulped. "It's . . . mostly paid 
for. We owe about another thousand for it 
on Visa. I promise, Goldy, that's the 
truth. I swear, if I don't pay up today, 
it's yours, and the Visa bill is ours. 
The ring's worth about fifteen thousand. 
Such a deal!"

   I cast a glance along our counter, 
taking in the enormous rib roast, the 
bundles of endive and radicchio, the 
boxes of wild mushrooms, the bowls of 
fresh strawberries and rhubarb. I tried 
to imagine hauling all of it over to the 
Stockhams', along with a bald guy with a 
jewelers' loupe. Then if the gems weren't 
genuine, I could wring Shane's neck.

   "When do I get the ring?" I heard 
myself say.

   "I can bring it over now, or, or, I 
can give it to you when you arrive." He 
hesitated, and lowered his voice to a 
whisper. "Probably safer if we wait until 
you get here. I swear, Goldy. If I don't 
give it to you the second you walk in the 
door, you can dump the food in Cottonwood 
Creek. It runs right past our house." 
Before I could reply, he said, Hey, that 
prime rib sounds great. Oh, and could you 
name one of the dishes after these women? 
I want to flatter them a bit. We all know 
gadgets are the wave of the future! But 
these females keep moaning about nest 
eggs. Help me placate them, will you? I 
tell them they need to 'Get wild!' I even 
call them my 'Wild Girls,' and they love 

that. See you at ten."

   And then the slimeball hung up.

   What would happen to the women's nest 
eggs if Shane's business failed again? 
Would they be offered emerald necklaces? 
In these situations, I always tried to 
think of what Tom, my wise husband, would 
say.

   You're already driving yourself crazy 
trying to control your own burgeoning 
business, plus Arch, plus a police 
investigation involving Julian, my 
internalized Tom-voice reminded me. You 
don't need to add taking care of Shane’s 
investors to Goldy’s List of Controllees.

   I checked our larder, fixed myself 
another coffee, and began to type.

Investors' Lunch for Twelve-Revised Menu
Wednesday, April 13
Steaming Gadget-Dumpling Soup
Wild Girls' Grilled Mushroom Salad
Ad Guys' Roast Beef and Gravy
Mashed Russet and Sweet Potatoes
Brioche Rolls
Super Spenders' Strawberry-Rhubarb
  Cobbler with Vanilla Ice Cream

   First things first. I brought out 
cardboard boxes and packed in the vats of 
chilled, Asian-flavored stock I'd already 
made. After preheating the oven, I put in 
the roast. I would sear and roast it 
partway at home, then finish it at the 
Stockhams'.

   Outside, the snow was thickening. 
Looking down, I wondered how my raw-
skinned, much-washed hands would look 
with a ruby, sapphire, and diamond ring 
glittering on one finger. It didn't 
matter. If we didn't get paid for this 
lunch, I was going to sell the damn ring.

   I started water boiling for the 
potatoes. After trimming the enormous, 
firm Portobello mushrooms, I whisked 
together the luscious sherry and balsamic 
vinaigrette in which the mushrooms would 
be briefly bathed before I grilled them 
in the Stockhams' state-of-the-art 
kitchen. Food was great, I reflected, as 
I got swept up in the rhythm of cooking. 
It's dealing with folks that makes 
catering so challenging.

   Liz arrived, her coat dusted with 
snow, her nose red. She proffered a bag 
of cinnamon and cheese Danish from the 
Aspen Meadow pastry shop.

   "I didn't want you to fix anything for 
me," she protested sheepishly. "Anyway, I 
thought I wouldn't be hungry, what with 
my son on the loose, getting us into so 
much debt I won't be able to charge at 
the grocery store anymore. But I'm 
ravenous and out of cash. . . not a good 
time to run into the store clutching your 
credit card."

   It turned out that I was ravenous, 
too. While the potatoes and roast cooked, 
we dug into the Danish and told credit 
card jokes. I wrote Liz a check for the 
Monday event, for which she was almost 
pathetically grateful. Then we rewashed 
our hands and quickly divvied up the 
tasks for the rest of the lunch. Liz, who 
had a remarkable knack for presentation, 
asked to be put in charge of piping side-
by-side dollops of mashed sweet and 
russet potatoes in the potato skins.

   "I'll make it look great," she 
promised. "A fat golden swirl of mashed 
russet next to a creamy orange swirl of 
sweet potato, both piping hot and 
crackling with melted butter. Trust me."

   "Trust you? You're making me hungry 
all over again, and I just downed two 
Danish!"

   We worked feverishly over the next 
hour. As I energetically mashed the white 
potatoes - Liz was working on the fleshy, 
orange sweet ones - I wondered how to 
broach the subject of Teddy. Can anyone 
account for every movement of Teddy s, 
from the time he left the security office 
to the time you picked him up at 
McDonald’? I wanted to asked. How about 
someone vouching for your own doings?

   "How's Julian doing?" she asked as she 
fitted a piping tip onto my pastry bag.

   "I saw him yesterday. He was feeling 
pretty low, didn't talk much about what 
was going on there. I do know that the 
day after an arrest, the sheriff's 
department does an advisement by video 
from the courthouse. Lets you know what 
you're charged with. The arraignment 
comes a couple of days later. I'm just 
hoping that someone else will emerge as a 
suspect, someone, say, without an alibi - 
"

Super Spenders' Strawberry-Rhubarb
  Cobbler

Fruit:
½ to 2/3 cup sugar, depending on the
  sweetness of the strawberries
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1 ½ pounds strawberries, washed, trimmed,
  and halved
½ pound rhubarb, washed, trimmed, and cut
  into 1-inchpieces
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Topping:
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
3/8 teaspoon baking powder
  (High altitude: ¼ teaspoon)
1/8 teaspoon salt
11 tablespoons (1 stick plus 3
  tablespoons) unsalted butter, softened
3/4 cup sugar
1 egg
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
Vanilla ice cream or heavy cream

   Preheat the oven to 375°F. Butter a 9 
x 13-inch pan or 2-quart au gratin pan.

   For the fruit: In a small bowl, mix 
the sugar with the cornstarch. Place the 
trimmed fruit in a large bowl and pour 
the sugar mixture and vanilla over it. 
Mix together gently and pour into the 
prepared pan.

   For the topping: Sift together the 
flour, baking powder, and salt; set 
aside. In the large bowl of an electric 
mixer, beat the butter until creamy and 
light. Add the sugar gradually, beating 
until light and smooth. Beat in the egg 
until thoroughly combined, then mix in 
the vanilla. Turn off the beater and with 
a large wooden spoon, stir in the flour 
mixture just until all the ingredients 
are well combined. Using an ice-cream 
scoop or other large spoon, drop the 
dough in large, even spoonfuls onto the 
fruit in the pan.

   Bake for 35 to 45 minutes, or until 
the topping is golden brown and the fruit 
is bubbling. Test for doneness by 
spooning up a small section of the middle 
of the topping. If it is like cake, it is 
done. If the topping is still a liquid 
yellow, bake until it is like cake. Serve 
warm with best-quality vanilla ice cream 
or heavy cream, either poured or whipped.

Makes 6 large or 8 small servings

   "Teddy and I are lucky in that 
department," Liz interjected, without 
looking at me. Instead, she concentrated 
on heaping scoops of mashed potatoes into 
the pastry bag. "I left you around 
quarter after eight, then went straight 
to Security. I left them around eight-
thirty, which, thank God, is what the 
guards told the cops. Somebody was just 
coming in for his shift at McD's when I 
arrived there at eight-forty, and watched 
me talking to Teddy until we left, around 
nine-thirty." She finished the first four 
potatoes, and gave me a look. Triumphant? 
Defiant? I couldn't tell.

   "Well," I said thoughtfully as I 
brought an oversized bag of field , 
greens out of the walk-in. "Hmm. So. . . 
if Teddy's not a suspect, why would he 
take off? It's just going to make them 
come down harder on him when they do find 
him."

   Liz filled another bag with snowy 
whipped potatoes. "Teddy took off because 
he was under stress. When he's under 
stress, he shops."

   Or steals, I added silently, but said 
nothing. I rinsed the field greens and 
set them aside to drain. What else could 
I ask Liz before it was time to take off? 
"Know anybody who might have pushed Barry 
down, causing him headaches?"

   Liz finished a creamy swirl of whipped 
white potato and smiled at me. "What are 
you talking about?"

   Nothing, I said. After all, if she or 
Teddy had had enough physical strength to 
push Barry Dean down, I was pretty sure 
that she would have at least blushed when 
I mentioned it.

   Two new inches of heavy, wet snow 
plastered the sidewalk, trees, and 
streets by the time Liz and I set out. My 
new van boasted not only four-wheel 
drive, but new snow tires, also taken 
care of by Tom. Gosh, but it was nice to 
have a husband who actually cared about 
me.

   Liz told me that she, too, had new 
tires. But she wasn't nearly as gleeful 
about it. Teddy had had new radials put 
on her van right after he got out of jail 
for his latest shoplifting offense. It 
was to say he was sorry, Liz explained, 
as we trudged through the cementlike 
white stuff with our last boxes. Of 
course, he'd charged them.

   I led the way to the Stockhams' place. 
The Aspen Ranch area was situated just at 
the foot of the Aspen Meadow Wildlife 
Preserve, a sprawling hundred-thousand-
acre wooded refuge for elk, mountain 
lions, and all other manner of wildlife. 
Hunters, hikers, fishermen, Scouts, and 
nature lovers shared the Preserve and 
gloried in the Aspen Meadow itself, 
reputedly one of the largest living 
organisms on earth (a stand of aspens is 
actually one tree that has developed an 

extensive root system and become many 
trees). The Aspen Meadow was also the 
namesake for our town, which benefited 
from the tourism that the Meadow itself 
brought.

   Four years ago, the sale of the ten-
thousand-acre Burdock Ranch abutting the 
Preserve had provoked the usual 
hysterical conflict between Colorado's 
pro- and anti-growth folks. After two 
years of vicious wrangling, Aspen Ranch, 
a luxurious subdivision featuring five- 
to ten-thousand-square-foot homes on ten-
acre lots, had been approved. The 
builders swore they were preserving the 
character of the Wildlife Preserve. We 
could put up ticky-tacky condos, they'd 
threatened the planning commission, who 
eventually denied their application. But 
the county commissioners - all of whom 
had received huge campaign donations from 
the builders, it was later reported, and 
not just in the Mountain Journal - 
unanimously reversed the decision of 
their own planners and approved the 
project.

   Wending my way through the wide, snow-
blanketed streets of Aspen Ranch, I 
quickly lost my way. Lots of snow-covered 
trees and meadows looked like lots of 
other snow-covered trees and meadows. 
Plus, for all their money, the builders 
had messed up pretty dramatically on the 
street signs. They were long, slender, 
wood-carved affairs now completely 
frosted with ice and snow. Unfortunately, 
the numbers for the houses were also 
carved in this same style, and despite 
their placement at the end of each 
driveway, were illegible. I wasn't having 
fun trying to find Thirty-two Aspen Ranch 
Lane, even though I'd been there before.

   I finally got a clue from the 
mailboxes, grand wood-and-metal boxes 
painted with birds, pine branches, 
stagecoaches, and - thank you, Lord - Dr. 
and Mrs. Turner Maclester; 18 Aspen Ranch 
Lane lettered on the side. I slowly 
rumbled past Dr. and Mrs. William Knapp, 
Dr. and Mrs. Bachman Wilson, Dr. and Mrs. 
Paul Cardero. . . and wondered why the 
developers hadn't built a hospital at the 
entrance to the Wildlife Preserve. It 
would surely shorten up everybody's 
commute.

   I slowed as we climbed Aspen Ranch 
Lane. I knew we were only about a mile 
from the Preserve, but the white expanse 
of trees did not look familiar. I'd 
visited the Stockham place when the 
ground had been clear and the wooden 
street signs legible.

   Finally, I drew up to a long, gently 
ascending driveway that looked vaguely 
familiar, not because of the trees and 
rocks or snow-covered sign, but because a 
familiar vehicle was blocking the 
driveway.

   Marla had told me at the jewelry party 
about Pam Disharoon's white Audi, with 
its license plate GOGIRL. I groaned.

   I hadn't anticipated having to ask a 
very early guest to move her car, 
especially not a guest who reportedly had 
an unstable relationship with her sister, 
the volatile Page Stockham, my client. 
Still, would this give me a chance to 
question the elusive Pam on her 
relationship with the hapless Barry Dean?

   Another question formed in my brain as 
Liz and I sat in our vans, plumes of 
exhaust spiraling upward through the 
cold, moist air. Was Pam here to attend 
her brother-in-law's cash-raising lunch?

   Or was she here to disrupt it?

-14-
   Are the keys in it?" Liz demanded, 
banging on my windshield. When I 
shrugged, she raked her hair with her 
gloved hands, traipsed through what must 
have been ten inches of snow - it always 
snowed more west of town, here by the 
Preserve - and peered into the Audi.

   "Think you should call them on the 
cell phone?" she cried.

   I shook my head and jumped out of my 
van. "By the time I reach them, and they 
argue and debate until somebody decides 
to get dressed and come down here, I 
could have made it up there and put 
pressure on Shane to drive me back down." 
I arrived at her side. Despite the fact 
that I wore a wool jacket, I shivered in 
the biting cold.

   "OK. While you go up, I'll stay and 
guard our stuff."

   I began the long tramp up the 
driveway. There was only one set of 
footprints in the snow, undoubtedly 
Pam's. The uphill walk itself was 
actually very pretty, like being 
transported into a set for The 
Nutcracker. Trees high and low were hung 
with glittering ribbons of snow. The 
ground was thickly frosted, and was still 
a pristine, crystalline white. Sunbeams 
slanting through the pine and aspen 
branches winked off errant flakes. I 
would have had more inclination to 
appreciate all this if I hadn't been 
worrying about how we were going to do 

the lunch without being able to drive up 
to the house. We really needed someone to 
move Pam's damn car.

   After what must have been a mile of 
trudging, the large log house came into 
view, a pretty-but-oversized two-story 
affair that Shane had smugly informed me 
was in the style of Swedish Country. By 
the time I arrived at the carved front 
door and rang the bell, I felt as if I'd 
traipsed across Sweden by way of the 
North Pole.

   "Where have you been?" Shane demanded 
even before I began shaking off snow in 
his foyer. "I was expecting you twenty-
two minutes ago." His face was flushed, 
his tone accusing. I told myself to count 
to ten. While silently ticking off 
numbers, I took in his outfit: cream-
colored silk shirt, suede Western riding 
jacket, leather cowboy pants and boots, 
Stetson hat. Shane was apparently going 
to make his pitch costumed as a high-
flying cowboy. Well, I'd seen weirder.

   "There's an Audi blocking your 
driveway," I pointed out. "We can't get 
in. And I need payment before we start."

   Shane heaved a sigh of exasperation. 
He mumbled, "The ring's coming, I 
promise." Then he hooked his thumb in the 
direction of female voices bubbling from 
the interior of the house. I tugged off 
my boots and shuffled past the dining 
room, which was beautifully done up with 
a lavish floral centerpiece, gleaming 
crystal, Imari-pattern china, and linens 
in rich red, navy, beige, and gold.

   "Dining room looks good," I mumbled, 
and forced a smile at Shane. I really 
didn't want to carry my bad mood into a 
confrontation with Pam Disharoon.

   "Oh, I got the flowers and styling 
done in exchange for a Palm pilot," Shane 
replied. "And the china was one of Page's 
many, uh, extravagances."

   The living room offered more Swedish 
Country stuff. This seemed to mean lots 
of tall white furniture, wood sculptures 
of forest nymphs, chunky tables, and 
etched portraits of Nobel prizewinners. A 
fire blazed and crackled in the moss-rock 
hearth. Still shivering from my trek up 
the driveway, I longed to warm myself in 
front of it. But I sensed that wouldn't 
go over very well.

   Pam and Page, both lounging in tall, 
white corduroy wing-back chairs, 
registered my arrival. Why was I 
bothering them, their dismayed looks 
said.

   "There's an Audi in our way," I 
announced to the two women. "We can't get 
the vans up the driveway."

   "ODh, it's mine," Pam said 
offhandedly, reaching into a large Louis 
Vuitton purse. Was that purse the uniform 
tote of the yuppie set? And how had she 
avoided having it snatched by Teddy Fury? 
"I just had to take that nice long walk 
up the driveway. It was so . . . so 
sensual! Out here in the boondocks, the 
snow is seductively pretty! Couldn't you 
just imagine rolling in it with someone 
you love?" She treated Shane and Page to 
a dazzling smile. Then she turned and 
tossed me an LV key ring, which only my 
best imitation of Arch snagging the 
lacrosse ball enabled me to catch. "Here. 
You can move it." So much for my hopes of 
Pam shrieking with embarrassment for 
causing so much trouble with her car, and 
then scrambling from the room to move it.

   In my business, pots can boil over. 
The caterer can't. Not for the first 
time, I was having a hard time staying 
cool. I avoided a glance into the gilt-
edged mirror over the mantel. If I did, I 
was sure to see steam whistling out my 
ears.

   "I'll drive you back down," Shane 
interposed hastily. "Need me to preheat 
the oven or anything?"

   I swallowed the words What I need is 
for you to give me that damn ring this 
instant, or call Kentucky Fried Chicken 
for your lunch. Instead, I nodded. "Four 
hundred degrees."

   "Done."

   A few ringless minutes later, we were 
bumping down Shane's driveway in his old 
truck. He had put on a navy cashmere coat 
to cover his invest-in-me outfit, and his 
nervousness was increasing to the point 
that he almost made me jittery.

   "I'm going to get you the ring," he 
announced preemptively, "I just need to 
wait until Pam and Page have settled into 
one of their little squabbles. Then 
neither one of them will leave her seat 
to get wine or whatever, and we can do 
the deed."

   "Shane - "

   "I don't know why Pam's here," he 
interrupted me. "Page told her we were 
having investors over for lunch, and Pam 
decided to crash the party. Unless she 
has a wad of money somewhere that I don't 
know about, she's just another mouth to 
feed. At best. At worst, she and Page 
will have a fight." Slowing the truck, he 
shot me a worried look. "Do you sometimes 
have to break up arguments at catered 
events?"

   You mean, I nearly said, like the 
tussle between you and your wife just two 
days ago? Instead, I answered, "It 
happens. Usually I can find a way to 
distract everybody's attention. Like 
inviting them to come eat dessert. 
Speaking of which, does that mean we'll 
now have thirteen t for lunch?"

   Shane blushed. "Well, yeah. I guess. 
Sorry. But don't worry, they always get 
into such a big fight that they miss 
dessert. I just wish they'd argue now, 
and Pam would stomp off before my 
investors arrive." He swerved to avoid a 
pine tree - his driveway was treacherous 
- and pulled up by Pam's Audi. From 
behind her frosted windshield, Liz beeped 
and waved.

   "Just park the Audi on the far side of 
the garage, near the middle storage 
shed," Shane advised. "Then you all can 
get your vans next to the house."

   I hopped out, mulling over the words 
middle storage shed. How much stuff could 
a couple with two ninth-graders have? 
Enough, apparently, to fill a house and 
several sheds. I started the Audi on only 
the second try. Pam wouldn't have won any 
awards in the Clean Car Competition, that 
was for sure. A cereal bowl with hardened 
flakes clanked back and forth on the 
carpet in front of the passenger seat; 
newspapers strewn across the backseat 
swished forward as I accelerated; a 
Starbucks cup of long-dead coffee sloshed 
in the container by the radio. Well, I 
now knew one thing for certain about Pam: 
She was a true slob. During the few 
minutes I let the Audi warm up, I pawed 
through everything within reach. With 
Julian in jail, I had no scruples left. 
Unfortunately, I found nothing about 
Barry's murder or anything else that 
might bear on the case.

   I crept up the driveway and pulled 
Pam's car carefully to the right of the 
garage where there were indeed three 
lovely log storage sheds. Liz piloted my 
van behind me. Shane trucked her back to 
her drunken stupor on a love seat across 
the living room from Page and Pam. The 
sisters' conversation seemed to be 
reaching the simmer much faster than our 
dumpling soup.

   "I helped Aunt Linda find the new 
doctor who did her so much good," Page 
was insisting, gesticulating with her 
wineglass. "I fired that cardiologist 
who'd misdiagnosed her, and I was the one 
who ordered new tests and hired her a new 
cook. You couldn't be bothered, Pam, 
because you were too busy trying on 
nighties for men twenty years your senior 
- "

   "Excuse me, but at least I have a 
job," Pam retorted, then slugged down 
wine. "That's unlike some people, who 
live off others' unearned wealth."

   Oh, so you're a communist now?"

   "Furthermore," Pam steamed on, "I 
didn't go rifling through Aunt Linda's 
cobalt stems until I found the goblet 
where she hid the diamond pendant - "

   "That diamond pendant was stolen!"

   "By whom?"

   "The cook!"

   "Would that be the same cook you 
hired?"

   "I didn't know she was a thief!" Page 
screamed.

   Pam took another noisy gulp of 
Burgundy. "Excuse me, but I think you 
know all about thieves!"

   "Exactly what are you insinuating?"

   "You've got that pendant and I want to 
know where it is!"

   "Shane," I said in a low voice. "I'll 
need payment before we can proceed."

   Shane's face was frozen in pain. While 
the two sisters screamed, he hauled 
himself out of the love seat and motioned 
for me to follow him down the hall. 
Intent on their argument, Pam and Page 
did not register our departure, which was 
probably for the best.

   "These are the bathrooms, in case 
clients ask," he told me, pointing to 
each side of the hallway. I told him this 
was good to know. I reached in to flip on 
the lights of a black-and-silver rest 
room on one side, and a peach-papered and 
marble-countered one on the opposite 
wall. I never broke my stride. I didn't 
want to give Shane the chance to get 
distracted - again.

   "OK, now we need to be quiet and 
quick," he warned, as he creaked open a 
door that bore a floral-bordered 
needlepoint sign: Pages Place.

   "You're going to take the ring out of 
your wife's room?" I asked, incredulous. 
I looked around the room. Page's Place 
was as disheveled as Pam's Audi. Clothes 
spilled out of drawers of white-and-gold 
French Provincial furniture; open closet 
doors revealed a heap of discarded coats 
next to a heap of shoes; the plush cream-
and-floral carpeting was so paved with 
discarded stockings and rejected lingerie 
that it was like a Victoria's Secret 
obstacle course.

   Like her sister, Page was a dedicated 
slob. Shane put his finger to his lips, 
then paused to listen. Page and Pam were 
now squabbling over who Aunt Linda would 
have wanted to have the cobalt.

   "I bought the ring for her birthday 
next month," Shane told me. "But she 
always goes through my stuff, and she 
found it and took it." His nose wrinkled. 
"See, one time I had to take one of her 
presents back and she'd already gone 
through my stuff to find out what she was 
getting. When the bills came in, I 
decided to return one gift, an emerald 
bracelet. She was furious and . . . well, 
you've seen how Page is when she's 
furious. So now, no matter how good I get 
at hiding stuff, she gets better at 
finding it, and she takes her presents, 
so I won't decide I've been too 
extravagant and return them. What she 
doesn't realize is that I've gotten 
better at going through her stuff, so - " 
He stopped when he saw my mouth hanging 
open. "What's the matter?"

   "You said we needed to be quiet and 
quick." Shane took long, zigzagging steps 
across the large room, avoiding discarded 
outfits as if they were piles of elephant 
dung. Since my legs weren't quite as long 

as his, I had a hard time following him.

   "Here we go," Shane announced, pulling 
open a drawer dripping with slithery 
nightgowns. He groped in the back of the 
drawer for a silk sachet of potpourri. 
"This'll just take a sec," he promised.

   He untied the lace drawstring of the 
sachet, sending bits of dried rose petals 
fluttering to the floor. His stealthy 
behavior was making me so nervous that I 
averted my eyes hastily and looked around 
the room. Four lacy bras, black, beige, 
white, and pink, were laid out on the 
chaise lounge. Clearly, Page hadn't been 
able to decide among them. All four were 
of the amply padded variety. Page 
Stockham may or may not have been a 
thief, as her sister claimed, but there 
was no doubt the woman stretched the 
truth.

   "Here we go," declared Shane, as he 
extracted something shiny from the 
potpourri. More dried petals fluttered to 
the carpet. He handed me the ring - it 
was a dazzling trio of jewels: sapphire, 
diamond, and ruby - and told me to try it 
on.

   "It looks like something for the 
Fourth of July," I commented, as I 
obeyed. The ring was a tad big for me. 
Not that it mattered, because this was 
collateral. I took it off and slipped it 
deep into my skirt pocket.

   "Yeah, well," Shane muttered, as he 
hastily reassembled the gutted potpourri 
bag, tucked it back into the drawer, and 
picked at the dried bits at his feet. 
"Let's just hope she doesn't go looking 
for it before her birthday."

   "Shane," I protested, as he hustled me 
down the hallway. "I really don't think 
this - "

   "Aunt Linda never intended for you to 
have the chandelier! We specifically 
talked about it when I was visiting her!" 
Pam's voice shrilled from the living 
room.

   "You mean, visiting her when you were 
ten?" Page shrieked back. The doorbell 
rang. Peeping through the hole, Shane 
gasped.

   "It's four of my investors!" he said, 
trying to be heard above the yelling. 
"Can't you do one of those distractions 
you mentioned?" he begged me. The ringer 
bonged again: Page and Pam raised their 
hollering a notch. "Just do something, 
will you?" Shane implored desperately.

   I zipped into the kitchen, where Liz 
was spooning out juices and melted fat 
from the standing rib roast pan. The 
roast wasn't quite done, of course, but I 
really needed to start on the gravy from 
the drippings Liz was gathering. The 
doorbell chimed again. OK, first things 
first. When in doubt, reach for a cliché. 
I nabbed a pack of matches, hopped up on 
a chair, teetered perilously toward a 
stack of bookshelves, and lit the entire 
pack without closing the cover before 
striking. Then I thrust my little 
conflagration up to the kitchen smoke 
alarm.

Ad Guys' Roast Beef and Gravy

4- to 5-pound standing rib roast,
   prime grade
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 
Melted unsalted butter, if necessary
¼  cup high-quality Burgundy
¼ cup all-purpose flour
3 ½ cups homemade beef stock or
  2 tablespoons beef bouillon granules
  dissolved in 3 ½  cups boiling water

   Preheat the oven to 450°F. Take out a 
roasting pan with a rack and line the 
bottom (underneath the rack) with either 
a very large piece of foil that 
completely covers the bottom of the pan 
and can be folded up over the sides or 
two pieces of foil that have been rolled 
tightly in the middle to form one large 
piece. The bottom of the pan should be 
completely covered with an airtight piece 
of foil.

   Use a paper towel to pat the roast 
dry, then season the roast with the salt 
and pepper. Place the roast, bone side 
down, on the rack. Insert an instant-read 
digital thermometer into the roast so 
that the sensor is in the middle of the 
roast.

   Place the roast in the oven and 
immediately reduce the oven heat to 325°. 
Roast until the temperature reads 115°F. 
(At this point the beef is quite rare, 
but the cooking is not done yet.) Remove 
the roast to another pan (even a large 
pie plate will do) and return it to the 
oven. (To obtain medium-rare, the roast 
should be removed when the thermometer 
reaches 125°F to 130°F; for medium, 135°F 
to 145°) If the thermometer reaches the 
desired temperature before the gravy is 
finished, remove the roast to a serving 
platter and tent it with foil.

   Drain off the fat in the bottom of the 
foil-covered pan and measure it; you 
should have ¼ cup. If you have more, 
discard it. If you have less, add melted 
butter until you have ¼ cup. Place this 
in a sauté pan over low heat.

   Pour the Burgundy directly into the 
bottom of the foil-covered roasting pan 
and let it sit while you start on the 
gravy.

   Raise the heat under the sauté pan to 
medium-low and whisk the flour into the 
fat. Whisking constantly, cook the flour 
in the fat until the mixture just begins 
to bubble and turn color, less than 5 
minutes.

   Using a heatproof plastic spatula, 
scrape the flavorful brown bits adhering 
to the foil into the wine. Stir this wine 
mixture into the cooking fat-flour 
mixture. Whisking constantly, add the 
beef stock in a slow stream. When all the 
stock has been added, taste the gravy and 
correct the seasoning.

   Over medium-low to medium heat, whisk 
and cook the gravy until it thickens and 
bubbles. Serve hot with the roast beef.

Makes 4 to 6 servings

   Within seconds, the pealing of the 
alarm made me think I would go 
prematurely deaf. But the alarm certainly 
had the desired effect. I heard Pam 
screeching to Shane for her car keys. 
Shane, his face stricken, appeared at the 
kitchen door, while I imitated one of the 
Broncos' razzle-dazzle plays by doing a 
one-handed toss of the keys to him, while 
keeping my little book of matches held 
high.

   Over the racket Liz cried, "Goldy, 
what the hell are you doing?" Still, she 
had the presence of mind to slam the 
kitchen door shut behind Shane. We heard 
Pam make a noisy, stamping exit out the 
front door - so much for keeping the 
investors out of the fracas - while 
shouting, "I'll be back to talk about 
this some more! I'm not done!"

   Liz actually giggled. Next Page's 
voice shrieked at the kitchen door, 
accompanied by her pounding on same. Liz 
cried, "Please go to a separate part of 
the house, Mrs. Stockham! We don't want 
the smoke smell to wreck your - uh - 
cobalt stuff! Not to worry! We've got the 
situation under control!"

   Page stamped away. I hoped it was not 
in the direction of Page's Place, where 
she might want to try on some of her 
jewelry to calm herself down. But I had 
no time to worry about that: The chatter 
from arriving guests was unmistakable. My 
mind chattered, too, when a volume on an 
upper bookshelf snagged my attention. 
Unfortunately, it was then that the fiery 
matches reached my fingertips. I yelped 
and flung the ball of flame toward the 
sink. It hit the roast, landed in the 
pan, and ignited. Without thinking, Liz 
grabbed an open bottle of Burgundy and 
poured it over the flames, and a genuine 
explosion rocked the kitchen. I screamed, 
jumped down from the chair, nabbed an 
extra-large bottle of Evian, and dumped 
the contents on our beautiful, blazing, 
twenty-dollar-a-pound prime beef.

   The smoke alarm was still squealing as 
Liz, now splashing a second bottle of 
Evian over the still-flaming roast, 
yelled, "I don't think they're going to 
hire us again!"

   In spite of all this, the luncheon 
came off well. I was disappointed not to 
have had a chance to talk to Pam about 
the Barry mess, but wasn't sure I 
actually would have been able to. And 
anyway, my disappointment was allayed 
when Marla sashayed through the front 
door, claiming she was taking the place 
of someone who was sick. Because the 
luncheon was quite a bit smaller than 
Monday's party, we didn't have the 
opportunity to share gossip - except when 
she tiptoed into the kitchen to say Page 
and Shane had started to fight again, and 
that Page had stalked out. A few moments 
later, I saw Page's Audi - a duplicate of 
her sister's - whiz away.

   Without his wife there to scrutinize 
and criticize his every move, Shane was 
unexpectedly brilliant. His enthusiastic 
pitch about The Gadget Guy On-Line 
reminded me of Tom Sawyer's whitewash-
the-fence psychology. Only a select few 
were good enough to do this job, and if 
you wanted to be in on this opportunity 
to invest, you were just going to have to 
get in line! Shane's enthralled guests 
all beamed and asked, Was there an upper 
limit on how much one could invest? All, 
that is, except for Marla, who gave me a 
dramatic wink.

   The food, despite our disastrous 
start, was out of this world, if I do say 
so myself. As if on cue, the snow began 
to flutter down again as Liz and I 
ferried out the steaming, fragrant bowls 
of soup dotted with floating dumplings. 
Liz stoked the fire in the dining room 
fireplace while I served Wild Girls' 
Grilled Mushroom Salad. Since Liz and I 
had learned one of Julia Child's lessons 
well - Never criticize your own food at a 
party - we were able to serve "Lightly 
Smoked Prime Rib" without batting an eye 
or even giggling. The investors gobbled 
it all up, right to the Strawberry-
Rhubarb Cobbler, of which, like the 
investment, everyone demanded large 
pieces.

Wild Girls' Grilled Mushroom Salad

4 ounces Portobello mushrooms
  (about 1 large or medium-size)
4 ounces shiitake mushrooms
1 ounce oyster mushrooms
3 large garlic cloves, peeled and pressed 
2 teaspoons Dijon mustard
2 tablespoons best-quality medium-dry
  sherry (recommended brand: Dry Sack)
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar
6 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil 
Nonstick cooking spray
6 cups field greens (mesclun)

   To clean the mushrooms, wipe them 
carefully with damp paper towels. Remove 
the stems from the Portobello and 
shiitake mushrooms and discard. Using a 
sharp knife, lightly trim the gills from 
the Portobello mushroom and slice into 
1x1-inch pieces. Slice the shiitakes in 
half. Weigh the mushrooms; you should 
have about 8 ounces total.

   In a large glass bowl, whisk together 
the garlic, mustard, sherry, and vinegar 
until well combined. Pour the oil into 
this mixture in a steady stream, whisking 
all the while. Place the mushrooms into 
this marinade and mix very carefully to 
coat all sides.

   Spray a grill with nonstick spray and 
preheat the grill for 5 minutes, while 
the mushrooms marinate. Do not 
overmarinate the mushrooms, or their 
delicate flavor will be lost.

   Grill the mushrooms over medium-high 
to high heat for about 3 to 4 minutes per 
side, or until cooked through. Serve 
immediately on a bed of field greens.

Makes 4 servings as a side dish, 2 
servings as a main dish

   While we were serving the lunch, 
however, my curiosity began to nag. 
During the ring-stealing and fire-
starting escapades, I'd seen a couple of 
things that had perplexed me, and I 
wanted to look into them - OK, snoop - a 
bit more. There were a few too many 
things about the Stockhams that were 
bothering me - the vicious way they 
fought, the nasty games they played, 
their ruthless habit of blaming others 
for their financial problems. All these, 
plus their current money mess brought on 
by The Gadget Guy's eviction from 
Westside, were making me wonder if they 
were more involved in the death of Barry 
Dean than the cops suspected. Anything to 
try to help Julian, I said to myself, as 
I scooped globes of ice cream.

   While Liz handed out seconds of ice 
cream and cobbler, I climbed back onto 
the kitchen chair and turned my attention 
to the bookshelves. The lowest shelf 
contained the usual assortment of gourmet 
cookbooks people bought these days but 
rarely used. All looked brand-new. Above 
them was another array of cookbooks, 
these of the specialty-fad type, 
featuring Cooking With Bananas the Fiji 
Way, Creative Tofu Touches, and Bread 
Soups from Around the World (spare me). 
My guess was that these books hadn't ever 
been opened.

   But above those, I'd spotted something 
that hadn't quite fit. As Tom was always 
telling me, that's what you should look 
for. Off the top shelf, I pulled a well-
worn copy of Alcoholics Anonymous, 
otherwise known as The Big Book. Was 
Shane or Page an alcoholic? Or thinking 
he or she might be? The way Page had been 
hitting the wine this morning might 
indicate so. But why keep this reading 
material in the kitchen, as if to hide 
it? Still perched on the chair, I opened 
the book and caught two pieces of paper 
before they fluttered to the floor.

   The first was a list of the Twelve 
Steps, but something about it I was 
different. I read, We admitted we were 
powerless over our spending, that our 
lives had become unmanageable. I turned 
to the second sheet. Shopaholics 
Anonymous Meeting Times, the heading 
announced. Hmm. I'd heard of Debtors 
Anonymous, but not this. Meetings were 
held at two times, on two days - ten 
o'clock in the morning and seven in the 
evening Mondays and Thursdays, in the - I 
had to read this part twice - shoppers' 
lounge at Westside Mall? Hello? Would you 
have an AA meeting in a liquor store?

   Hearing Liz approach, I shoved the 
book back into its spot, then scrambled 
off the chair.

   "Ten more coffees, two more teas," she 
announced, giving me a quizzical glance 
as I shoved the chair back into place. 
"Want to refill the coffeepot?"

   "I already did, and it's percolating," 
I replied. "I'm going to the little 
girls' room," I added.

   Liz bustled around, working on the hot 
drinks. Meanwhile, I sprinted down the 
hall, turned on the fan in the peach-
colored bathroom, and, still standing in 
the hall, shut the door hard. Then I 
whipped into Page Stockham's room, aka 
Page’s Place.

   Unless I was very wrong, I'd glimpsed 
something here, too. Something - no, make 
that things - that I'd seen before, but 
in a wholly different context. If I was 
right, these items were of interest not 
only to me but maybe to law enforcement. 
I tiptoed over the clothes - strewn 
floor, bypassed the chaise lounge with 
its multicolored array of bras, and only 
cast a cursory glance at the armoire with 
its jumble of jewelry. As quietly as 
possible, I eased the bifold closet door 
to its fullest open position, then 
flipped on the light.

   I had not been wrong. There, on Page 
Stockham's closet floor, was a jumbled 
mountain of shoes and shoeboxes. Red, 
pink, black, navy, beige, and white pumps 
spilled from cardboard and tissue. Each 
and every one was of the same style, 
featuring a cutout toe.

   The last time I'd seen this style 
shoe, hundreds of them had been littered 
around the body of Barry Dean.

   Damn, I thought as I stared in 
astonishment down at the footwear. What 
exactly did this mean? That Page Stockham 
was the Imelda Marcos of the Rockies? 

   Logistics: Page hadn't physically 
attacked Shane; she'd acted in self-
defense. She must have rejoined Marla 
after being hauled out of the lounge, 
because I knew that Marla, Ellie, and 
Page had been shopping together, even 
buying shoes, at that mammoth sale. But 
how could Page Stockham have bought so 
many of one style, and not seen Barry 
Dean Monday night? Forget seeing; could 
she have done something else? Was it 
possible that Page had stolen my knife, 
and in that corner of the shoe department 
that the cameras couldn't see, killed 
Barry herself? Maybe she hadn't quite 
succeeded in eliminating her husband's 
financial enemy, but had shoved him into 
the cabinet still moaning, then come back 
to finish the job, and bop me in the 
process?

   I squatted down and stared at the 
shoes, thinking hard. What had Marla told 
me? That she, Page, and Ellie had left 
the mall together Monday evening, just 
before nine. I'd found Barry just after 
nine. In the nightmare that followed, I'd 
ruled each of the three women out as 
being the person who deserved to be 
behind bars, instead of Julian. Where had 
the women gone when they left the mall? 
Had they been together? I doubted the 
police had even questioned them, because 
they hadn't been in the shoe department 
when Julian found me. I doubted I'd find 
a receipt with a "time of sale" in the 
jumble of footwear. How long had Barry 
been in that Prince & Grogan shoe 
cabinet, anyway?

   My cell phone bleated in my apron 
pocket. I leaped up and almost careened 
onto Page's chaise lounge. I grabbed the 
phone and turned off the power. If Page 
or Shane or anybody, for that matter, 
found me snooping around in a client's 
closet, my catering career would be over.

   Strolling officiously down the hall to 
the kitchen, I popped back into the 
bathroom. There I turned the fan off. 
Back in the kitchen, I leaned against the 
side-by-side refrigerator, repowered the 
cell, and checked the incoming calls. 
Apparently, somebody at Hulsey, Jones, 
Macauley & Wilson wanted to talk to me in 
the worst way.

   "Liz," I said when she came in with an 
empty cobbler pan, "how's it going? Sorry 
to have been gone so long."

   "They love it." When Liz's eyes 
twinkled, her face seemed to light up, 
too. "They're demanding the recipe. With 
Page gone, it's a real party." She began 
filling the sink with soapy water, and I 
realized how much I appreciated one 
particular perk of success: being able to 
delegate to a trustworthy lieutenant. I 
said impulsively: "Liz, I'm very thankful 
we're working together."

   She smiled. "Me, too. I haven't 
received any calls on my cell since we 
started over here. But . . . was that 
your cell phone I heard?" she asked, 
lifting one of her silvery eyebrows.

   "Don't tell me you heard it."

   "It wasn't for me, was it? I mean, 
just on the off-chance."

   Of course, I knew what was worrying 
her. "No," I replied. "It wasn't about 
Teddy. It was . . . my lawyer."

   "Everything's all right?"

   "Oh, yeah." If it wasn't, I'd probably 
be the last to know. I checked my watch: 
one-thirty. While Liz whisked back into 
the dining room, I began rinsing out and 
packing up our containers. The window 
over the sink revealed that the 
thickening snow was coming down at an 
acute slant. This was a sure sign of a 
fast-moving storm. Liz reappeared, her 
eyes alight with laughter.

   "Two of those widows are under Shane's 
spell. He looks like he's in a state of 
sexual ecstasy, just waiting for those 
checks to roll in."

   I smiled. Maybe I wouldn't have to 
hold on to Page's ring for very long, 
after all. Just don't ask me to 
contemplate the safety of those 
infatuated widows' investments. In any 
event, that was beyond my control. What I 
really needed to know was what was going 
on with Steve Hulsey, Esquire.

   "Look, Liz. As I said, that message 
was from my criminal defense lawyer. Can 
you handle clearing while I give him a 
call?"

   "Of course," she replied cheerfully, 
as she placed a stack of dirty dishes 
beside the sink. "I wouldn't want to miss 
the widows writing those checks. Fifty 
thou each." She glanced outside, then 
added, "Listen, Goldy, why don't you let 
me finish up everything here? It'll 
provide some distraction from obsessing 
about Teddy. Anyway, aren't you 
chaperoning a school field trip today?"

   "I'm picking Arch and his pals up at 
their school at four." I sighed, dreading 
another chilly encounter with my son. 
"Thanks for reminding me. Maybe I better 
see if the attorney wants to huddle 
before then."

   She nodded and moved back into the 
dining room. I dialed Steve Hulsey's 
number.

   "He wants you to meet him at the jail 
as soon as possible," his secretary 
informed me, her voice crisp, efficient, 
and not at all friendly. "He needs to 
speak to you about Julian Teller."

   "Why does he need to talk to me about 
Julian?"

   "Mr. Hulsey has taken on his case. Mr. 
Hulsey is down at the jail now. Mr. 
Hulsey needs to see you."

   I couldn't count to ten, so I counted 
to three. "I'm catering way up by the 
Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve." I could 
hear the secretary tapping away at a 
keyboard. Clearly, my answer wasn't worth 
her full attention. I raised my voice a 
bit. "The snow's coming down pretty hard 
It'll take me at least half an hour to 
get down to the jail. Can't you please 
tell me what this is about? Can't I talk 
to Steve over the phone?"

   "Mr. Hulsey will be waiting for you in 
the jail lobby." She disconnected before 
I could protest. I threw the cell phone 
onto the counter.

   At that moment, Marla tiptoed into the 
kitchen, coffee cup in hand. She wore a 
royal blue and black wool suit, an onyx 
and sapphire necklace and matching 
earrings, and royal blue shoes. She gave 
me her cat-who-swallowed-the-canary look 
and filled her cup with coffee from the 
big percolator. "So," she began, "the 
last time I saw you with Liz Fury, there 
was a bit of a disagreement going on. Now 
you two are all cozy. What happened?"

   "Oh, she's having problems with her 
son. In case you haven't noticed, I have 
the same kind of problems. Listen," I 
rushed on, "Monday night, how did you 
meet up with Page after she was ejected 
from the lounge?"

   Marla's eyes widened. "Ellie and I 
just had to know what had happened, so we 
went looking for Page at the mall's 
security office. The cops had just 
released her, so we again heard how much 
she hated and despised Barry Dean and her 
husband. She was really ready to shop 
then, so we all headed toward the shoe 
sale!"

   "OK, but were you shopping together? I 
mean, the whole time in Prince and 
Grogan?"

   Marla crinkled her nose and slurped 
her coffee. "We all bought a ton of 
shoes, if that's what you mean. Why? Does 
this have something to do with Julian? 
I'll do anything to help."

   "I know Ellie went home with Elizabeth 
Harrington. Did you and Page drive back 
to Aspen Meadow together?" I pressed.

   "No, why? The cops had told Shane 
they'd take him home, Page said. He'd 
left his BMW there at the mall, so I 
drove Page to it. She said she was 
bringing it back up here."

   "When was that? Eight-thirty? Eight 
forty-five?" I asked breathlessly.

   Marla moved her wrist back and forth; 
the diamonds on her Rolex sparkled. "It's 
a nice watch, Goldy, but I feel it's 
gauche always to be checking it. Sorry, I 
don't know what time it was."

   "How about Ellie? When did she leave?"

   "For crying out loud, Goldy! She's our 
friend! Why do you want to know all 
this?"

   "Just tell me!"

   Marla expelled breath. "We saw an old 
friend, Elizabeth Harrington, at the shoe 
sale. You remember, the widow of Brian 
Harrington?"

   "Right, Ellie told me she was with 
her."

   "Elizabeth lives near Ellie, so she 
offered to take her home. Around nine, I 
guess. Why does it matter?"

   "Just something else I'm trying to 
figure out for Tom," I said lightly, as 
Liz reappeared at the kitchen door.

   Marla sighed at the appearance of Liz, 
rolled her eyes at me, and trounced out 
of the kitchen.

   Four minutes later, I had thanked Liz 
for both her hard work and her offer to 
clean up by writing her another check, 
the second one I'd given her that day. I 
quickly explained that I was sure old 
Shane wasn't going to cough up an extra 
gratuity. Even with all of Liz's own 
problems, she actually laughed. I thanked 
her again and hugged her.

   Four additional heavy, wet inches of 
snow had accumulated since we'd arrived. 
At the end of the driveway, I looked 
right and left to check for traffic - 
there wasn't any - and glanced up into 
the Preserve. The curtain of flakes had 
thinned; maybe we were experiencing a 
mere flurry. Snow fell softly on millions 
of rows of perfectly frosted pines. It 
was breathtakingly beautiful, and made me 
feel a bit better. At least for a while.

   "Julian Teller passed the second 
polygraph," Steve Hulsey informed me in 
the lobby of the jail. His voice was a 
deep wheeze, like a snake with 
bronchitis. This day, he was wearing an 
impeccable dark beige silk suit. "But he 
still will be formally charged - 
arraigned - on Friday morning." He loomed 
over me. "Second-degree murder, a heat-
of-passion crime."

   "What are you talking about?" Denial 
rose in my throat like a scream. The 
sergeant on duty, a pudgy woman with a 
face like a raisin cookie, watched our 
interchange with, I imagined, one finger 
on the button you use to summon officers 
into the lobby. But I couldn't help 
myself. "There's more to Barry's murder 
than you think!" I snapped.

   Hulsey held up a hand, his face as 
cold and impassive as a stone statue's. I 
flinched. "Calm down," he commanded. 
"They're telling me you're not a suspect 
anymore. So I'm taking over on this case 
now. Please listen calmly while I tell 
you what's going to happen."

   I bit back another protest, crossed my 
arms, and glared at the gleaming white 
tiles on the lobby wall. Couldn't they 
have made this place look a bit less like 
a bathroom?

   "They're still developing evidence in 
the case," Hulsey told me, his voice back 
to the bronchilian reptile. "And the 
county attorney's office and the 
detectives are going over that videotape 
from the party in the shoppers' lounge 
with a microscope. Julian is on it, 
having not one but two heated arguments 
with the victim. And let's not forget, 
the store security guard found Mr. Teller 
with his hand on the murder weapon. 
Friday, ten in the morning, is the time 
of the arraignment."

   I nodded. I'd been to one of The 
Jerk's arraignments. There I hadn't heard 
justice being served; I'd heard a 
dispassionate declaration of war between 
the prosecution and the defense.

   "With second-degree murder, they'll 
probably let Julian out," Hulsey said, a 
bit more gently, but with a peek at his 
watch. "For a price, of course. Mrs. 
Korman is seeing about bail."

   "Mrs. Korman?" I said. Of course: 
Marla. I blinked and tried to focus. The 
lawyer's voice seemed far away.

   "Marla Korman." Hulsey could not 
disguise his impatience. "Your friend, 
the other ex-wife of Dr. John Richard 
Korman? You're probably looking at bail 
of a million dollars. Bond'll be a 
hundred thousand." I nodded blankly. A 
hundred thousand dollars. "One more 
thing," Hulsey added briskly. "Since 
you're not a suspect anymore, you can 
visit Julian. That's it, then. I need to 
go." He handed me another one of his 
cards (I was accumulating quite a 
collection), grasped his briefcase, and 
sailed out the doors.

   I watched Hulsey make a determined 
tramp through the snow to his Jag. OK, 
Julian was going to be arraigned. I shook 
my head. Our wonderful friend was 
suffocating behind bars. No matter what 
it cost, we had to get him out on bail.

   I signed in to see Julian and was sent 
to the same phone-containing cubicle as 
before. What was I going to say to him 
that could possibly cheer him up? You 
could be out on bail pretty soon? Like 
Hulsey, I snuck a peek at my watch: 
almost half past two. Would Julian feel 
hurt when I said I could only stay for 
thirty minutes? Tears stung my eyes when 
he strolled through the door. I cemented 
a smile in place and sternly ordered 
myself to buck up. I couldn't help him if 
I was slobbering.

   "Hey, Goldy!" Julian sang into the 
phone. His face was even thinner and more 
haggard than before. But either he was 
doing a great acting job or his spirits 
had taken a turn for the better. "Didn't 
expect you here!" He pulled a torn piece 
of paper from his pocket and leaned 
forward in his chair. "Sorry if you had 
to wait. My lawyer just left - "

   "Yeah, I heard about it - "

   "And then I called Arch on his lunch 
hour - "

   Julian's face cracked in a broad 
smile. He glanced down at the sheet in 
his hand. "This paper is my lifeline! It 
has the numbers of everyone I know. Arch 
told me to call him on his cell at 
certain times. So we talk three or four 
times a day. At his lunch hour, between 
his classes, like that. It's great. He 
told me you were taking him to the 
anatomy field trips I did that at EPP. 
The smell of formaldehyde's really gross, 
by the way. Prepare yourself."

   I thought of Julian's adoptive parents 
in Utah. Had he called them yet? I 
doubted it. "Yes, but - "

   "And then you'll never guess whose 
message I just answered!" His tone was 
beyond bubbly; it was feverish. No talk 
of the arraignment. No talk of the 
future. I swallowed and remembered my 
admonition to the parents of my Sunday 
school kids: Sometimes they just need you 
to listen.

   "Kim Fury!" Julian exclaimed. I tried 
not to look surprised as he continued: 
"Kim was a classmate of mine at EPP. We 
got to know each other pretty well, since 
we were both science kids among all the 
rich brats. Kim's really smart. Finished 
her B.S. in three years. Now she's doing 
graduate work at C.O. in computer 
science. Anyway, Kim is really pissed off 
with her brother for running away with 
her mom's credit cards."

   I tried to look as if I understood 
where all this was going. But I was 
worried. Julian was beyond both bubbly 
and feverish. He was manic. How was I 
going to have a logical strategy-planning 
session with him?

   "Anyway. Kim's sure her brother Teddy 
had something to do with this Dean thing, 
and that's why he skipped! But that's not 
all. She says her mother will do anything 
to keep Teddy from facing the 
consequences of his actions. Like this 
one time, he swiped a purse that had some 
car keys in it, and when he tried to 
start the car it jumped forward because 
it was still in gear - "

   "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Whose car? Ellie's 
McNeely's?"

   "I don't know," he rushed on. "But I 
was thinking, maybe - "

   It was time to interrupt. "Julian," I 
said. "Please. Just take a deep breath, 
OK?"

   Immediately the spark of hope in his 
eyes went out. I felt a pang of guilt.

   "Sorry!" I said hastily. "But I need 
to take notes if I'm going to get all 
this down. Do you know what kind of car 
it was?" I dug into my purse for an index 
card and pencil.

   "I don't know that either." His voice 
was barely audible.

   "Did Kim have anything concrete to 
share about Teddy and Barry Dean? 
Something that might help us?"

   "No."

   "Well, give me her number, will you?" 
I scribbled the number he recited.

   Julian looked up at the ceiling. "I 
passed the second lie detector test. 
Here's what's funny - it didn't matter. I 
had a wicked headache from caffeine 
withdrawal, so I've drunk about eight 
cups of jail coffee since the test. Stuff 
tastes like motor oil."

   "We're going to get you out of here - 
"
   "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, right, 
sure." He still wouldn't look at me. 
"Sorry to be so jazzed up. Listen, I 
still don't want my folks to know about 
this yet. I'll call down to Bluff when 
I'm ready, I promise." He straightened. 
"The formal charge on Friday will be 
second-degree murder. You probably heard. 
It's different, somehow, from that 
advisement on Tuesday. It all feels out 
of control." He shook his head. Again the 
sight of his thin face and unkempt hair 
felt like a blade in my heart. "I. . . I 
feel so bad about the bail money," he 
went on. "I feel so bad about everything. 
Seeing that knife in Mr. Dean was like 
noticing an electrical wire down on a wet 
road. You know you're not supposed to 
touch it. But your only thought is that 
you want to help, and then as soon as you 
touch it, you're either dead, in the case 
of the wire, or screwed, in the case of 
the knife - "

   I leaned forward and urged, "Julian. 
Don't do this to yourself. As you said, 
all you tried to do was help, and that 
was the right thing to do. You are 
innocent of this crime. And we're going 
to prove it." I managed what I hoped was 
a courageous smile. "I promise to ask Tom 
to look into Kim Fury's allegation about 
her brother." And to look into my own 
questions about the whereabouts of Ellie 
McNeely and Page Stockham from quarter to 
nine to nine, and why Page had ended up 
buying so many of a certain kind of shoe, 
I added silently.

   Julian rubbed his forehead. "I don't 
really want Teddy to get into trouble." 
He was suddenly restless. "Look, thanks 
for coming. Have fun at Arch's field 
trip." Then he hung up and walked away. 
He didn't look back.

   Snow fell steadily as I drove up to 
Elk Park Prep. My muscles ached and my 
stomach growled. I had had nothing to eat 
except a reheated chocolate croissant 
(one of Julian's creations from the 
freezer) and double espresso. My mind 
jumped around: Page Stockham and her 
shoes. Liz Fury fretting over her 
troubled (and missing) son. Julian, alone 
in jail.

   First things first. I punched in the 
phone number Julian had given me for Kim 
Fury in Boulder. No answer. I left a 
message identifying myself and asking her 
to call. Then I tried Tom, who was off 
somewhere, and brought him up to speed on 
the shoes I'd found heaped in Page's 
closet. Had the cops checked the alibis 
of these two women, Page Stockham and 
Ellie McNeely, for the time of Barry's 
murder? Finally, there was Kim Fury's 
report of her brother stealing a car. Was 
he aware of any of this? I wanted to 
know. Had Teddy been a suspect in the 
theft of Barry's car? And finally, had 
the cops found anything at the Elk Park 
Prep portable toilet?

   At quarter to four, I pulled off the 
interstate at the Aspen Meadow exit. I 
had to pick up my own son plus four other 
boys, drive back down the mountain, and 
endure an anatomy class. I was going to 
pass out if I didn't have something to 
eat.

   To my surprise, there was no line at 
our little burg's drive-through espresso 
place. Through the thickening swirl of 
snowflakes, I ordered a hot croissant 
ham-and-Swiss sandwich for myself, plus 
six biscotti and six large hot 
chocolates. Yes, extra - hot for the 
cocoa, and yes, with whipped cream. Extra 
whipped cream. I accepted the treats 
gratefully. Times of trauma, I reflected 
as I bit into the delicious sandwich - 
flaky pastry surrounding hot, thinly 
sliced Danish ham, just-melted Jarlsberg, 
and a hint of Dijon mustard - demand 
comfort food. I gunned the van toward 
Arch's school, secure in the knowledge 
that when I'd finished wolfing down the 
sandwich, I had a cup of steaming, cream-
topped cocoa waiting. Is there any better 
comfort food than chocolate? I think not.

   Outside the Upper School, I pulled the 
van behind a line of Mercedes, Jags, 
Audis, four-wheel-drive Lexuses, and 
late-model BMW's. In the prep school big-
spender environment, I knew that my van, 
with its emblazoned logo Goldilocks' 
Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right! 
gave Arch no end of anguish. The parents 
who did not know my son attended EPP 
undoubtedly thought I was there to serve 
gourmet hot dogs, maybe at that day's 
volleyball game.

   Arch and a group of boys, their 
jackets unzipped and their wool hats 
askew, tumbled out of the school doors. 
Steam issued from their mouths as they 
hollered and flung quickly scooped 
snowballs at each other. To avoid enemy 
missiles, they ran and slid expertly 
across the snowy ice. Seeing them free 
and happy made me think of Julian, 
trapped in jail. I shuddered.

   "Please say you brought us something 
to eat!" Arch exclaimed as he and his 
pals heaved their Sherpa-worthy backpacks 
into the van's rear. "We're starving! And 
freezing!"

   "Hot chocolate and biscotti!" I called 
and received a deafening but grateful 
chorus of Oh, yeah!

   "Mom, thanks," Arch murmured 
uncharacteristically, as he balanced his 
treat and surreptitiously leaned forward 
from the backseat, so his friends 
couldn't hear. Well, maybe my request for 
a little courtesy had hit its mark. That 
was two nice things he'd said to me in 
twenty-four hours. I glowed.

   "This is how a cadaver's bone breaks," 
called one of the boys, as he snapped his 
biscotto in two.

   "Oh, yeah?" my son replied. "This 
cocoa? It's the color of the inside of 
the liver."

   I placed my hot chocolate firmly in 
the cup holder and turned my attention to 
the road.

   During the drive, the boys joked 
mercilessly about the dissection and who 
was going to puke first. I clenched my 
teeth and decided not to accompany the 
boys inside. I had calls to make and a 
stomach to calm. But once in the hospital 
parking lot, the anatomy teacher hailed 
the van and said she was hoping all the 
moms could accompany the class, at least 
for the first ten minutes. I gulped the 
rest of my cocoa (for strength), hopped 
out carefully onto the ice, and told 
myself to buck up. After all, I'd seen 
corpses before, hadn't I?

   As we filed into the small, windowless 
room, the odor of formaldehyde hit me 
like a slap. Undoubtedly kept as a 
sterile environment, the hospital 
classroom reminded me of the Furman 
County Morgue. A sheet draped the body, 
which lay on a metal table. Rows of 
gleaming medical instruments sat at the 
ready on a nearby wheeled shelf. I took a 
deep breath - not a smart idea, as the 
horrid odor flooded my lungs - and did a 
yoga centering exercise.

   No matter how you tell yourself to 
detach from your feelings, it's 
impossible not to be apprehensive and sad 
when faced with a dead body. Once, the 
chilled flesh under this sheet had been a 
child, had played, and loved, and been 
loved. I shivered. When the teacher 
pulled back the sheet from the dead man's 
face, I squeezed my eyes shut and tried 
the yoga exercise again. When I reopened 
my eyes, the corpse's gray face and dark 
head of hair came into view. I slid my 
eyes around the group of students. Their 
bravado had evaporated. Instead, looks of 
fear, horror, and shock registered on the 
kids' faces. A boy and a girl bolted from 
the room simultaneously. When the boy 
threw up on the linoleum floor outside 
the dissection room, the girl, who was 
racing to the ladies', noisily followed 
suit.

   After ten minutes of cleaning up, 
settling down, and comforting from the 
nurses and the teacher, the red-faced 
pair rejoined the class. Quite 
uncharacteristically, their classmates 
made no fun, but patted their peers on 
the back and murmured that they'd almost 
blown lunch, too.

   Once things had calmed down, the 
teacher explained to the sickly-looking-
but-attentive class that the subject was 
a middle-aged male, a diabetic with heart 
disease who'd died in his sleep in a 
small-town motel at the southwestern edge 
of Colorado. No family had claimed the 
body. The county coroner had determined 
the cause and manner of death, that is, 
that the man had died of a heart attack. 
There were no signs of a struggle, no 
foul play was suspected, et cetera. Since 
the unclaimed body was of a relatively 
young man who hadn't been too fat, too 
thin, or a drug user, the Pueblo County 
Coroner, instead of doing an autopsy, had 
contacted the state anatomical board to 
offer the corpse as a donation for study. 
The board had accepted the specimen.

   I steeled myself as the teacher gently 
peeled back the sheet. The kids gripped 
one another's arms and turned even more 
pale, but managed to keep their 
equilibrium. I was proud of them. After a 
moment, they began to study the specimen, 
thank God. It took courage to pullout 
their notebooks, turn academic attention 
toward the corpse, and start acting as if 
this really was a lab, and not hell.

   The dead man had been short and 
stocky, with a flat abdomen and wide 
shoulders. Well-developed muscles had 
strained under skin that was now as gray 
as the trunk of a dead tree. Long, thin 
black hair curled over the cadaver's 
ears. An unremarkable face was 
distinguished by a nose that looked as if 
it had been broken more than once. The 
teacher droned on, explaining that at one 
point this man, an insulin-dependent 
diabetic, had suffered from gangrene. The 
effects of that disease were still 
visible. The class nodded, took notes, 
and donned surgical gloves while my eyes 
traveled the length of the body.

   And then I gasped. To distract the 
students from my gaffe, the teacher 
hastily murmured about how they needed to 
check their notebooks carefully, I that 
they needed to follow the procedure they 
had been taught. I pressed my lips 
together and forced myself to look again 
at the cadaver's right foot.

   Yes, this man had once been someone's 
son, had loved and played. He'd also once 
worked as a construction manager at 
Westside Mall. Unless I was very much 
mistaken, the deceased was Lucas No-toe 
Holden.

-16-
   I made a hand sign to the teacher, 
mouthing that I'd be right back. The poor 
woman nodded at me distractedly as I tore 
out of the classroom, no doubt certain I, 
too, was about to be sick. In my 
distress, I nevertheless remembered that 
cell phones were prohibited in hospitals. 
A phone, I thought desperately, I need a 
pay phone. Tom will know what to do.

   I raced at a clippety-clop down a 
linoleum-floored hall with echoing 
pastel-painted walls. The phone booth, 
however, boasted walls, a floor, and 
ceiling completely covered with carpet. 
It was so quiet I felt paranoid as I 
whispered my frantic discovery to Tom.

   "Goldy, the sheriff's department can't 
touch that body," Tom replied calmly when 
I'd finished. "The only person who can 
deal with it is the county coroner."

   "But. . . what about the hospital? 
Can't they at least confirm this guy's 
identity? I mean, if it is Holden, that 
has to mean something. Maybe someone 
murdered him. Maybe the person who 
murdered Barry killed No-toe - "

   "Hold on a sec." Tom called across to 
an associate, asking him to call the 
coroner's office and check if the cadaver 
now in the Lutheran Hospital teaching lab 
was Lucas Holden. In the distance, 
someone promised to get right on it. Tom 
returned to me. "Miss G., the hospital's 
not going to know the name of the donor." 
He was tapping computer keys. I rubbed my 
forehead. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe 
there were a lot of corpses with missing 
toes, and I was going overboard. "Yeah," 
Tom said, "we're still looking for Lucas 
Holden since it's an open case of a 
missing person. The coroner will talk to 
the anatomical board first, I can 
guarantee you that. He'll find out 
exactly how and where they got this body, 
then send a staff member over to the 
hospital. OK? But if this guy with the 
missing toe died of natural causes in a 
remote area, that really doesn't tell us 
much. Well, except why we haven't been 
able to find him."

   "If it is Holden, he was a diabetic. 
If Holden had to inject insulin, he could 
have been given a shot of something else, 
something to precipitate a heart attack. 
Heroin, say. They didn't do an autopsy, 
remember."

   "Miss G., please. The anatomical board 
won't accept a cadaver where there's any 
suspicion of foul play. And you also have 
to ask yourself why someone would want to 
kill this Holden. If he was an insulin-
dependent diabetic with heart disease, 
any doctor is going to say you'd expect 
him to drop dead at the first 
opportunity. I'm not trying to be 
negative here. It's just the truth."

   "Maybe Holden saw something," I 
insisted stubbornly. "Maybe he knew 
something. There must be a link. And you 
are being negative." My fingers drummed 
the vertical carpet. "Did you get 
anything back on the Page Stockham shoe 
situation? I just found out Page 
separated from Marla and Ellie in the 
parking lot that night."

   He inhaled, an attempt to be patient. 
"The three women did tell us they were at 
the shoe sale, Goldy. They all agree they 
left just before nine. If they hadn't 
bought shoes, I'd be suspicious. But I'll 
mention to the guys that I think Page 
Stockham should be questioned again. If 
she doesn't have an alibi for the time 
Barry was killed, and if she was a bona 
fide enemy of his, they'll be interested. 
And before you ask, the Teddy Fury failed 
car-stealing incident involved a VW bug."

   "But Kim Fury said - "

   "You yourself told me that Kim the 
sister and Teddy the brother had an 
argument about one of Liz's cars on 
Monday. Nobody here has any idea where 
Teddy Fury is at the moment. My guess 
would be he's getting as far from that 
sister as possible."

   I felt derailed. But I persisted. "I 
saw Hulsey at the jail. Any idea why they 
don't consider me a suspect anymore?"

   "Maybe they believe you. Your story 
doesn't have holes. Only the guitar has 
holes. Should I be out looking for 
another present for Arch, by the way?"

   Guilt thudded against my chest. 
"Sure," I said, and gulped. "Great. 
Thanks."

   "No sweat. So, what about Hulsey?"

   "He's representing Julian now, and 
says the charge at the arraignment will 
be second-degree murder. Bail is set at a 
million. Julian passed the second 
polygraph, by the way."

   "I heard." I thought of the seconds 
ticking by while the kids dissected Lucas 
Holden, maybe destroying valuable 
evidence that might free Julian. Had 
Tom's deputy reached the coroner? Or was 
I, like Julian, becoming both manic and 
desperate?

   My thoughts whirled. Ellie's stolen 
Lexus had been rammed into Barry's 
Mercedes. That seemed like too much of a 
coincidence to attribute the burglary to 
a garden-variety car thief. Plus, 
somebody had tried to get rid of Ellie 
last night. That had not been an 
accident. Plus, somebody had been driving 
that dump truck on Monday. Somebody had 
definitely tried to kill Barry in the 
Westside Mall parking lot. And, hours 
later, somebody had succeeded in killing 
him.

   "Tom, getting back to Ellie's purse. 
Suppose Barry's new wannabe girlfriend, 
Pam Disharoon, had been watching Ellie. 
Pam's incredibly competitive. Say she saw 
her opportunity to nab the purse Teddy 
dumped. Could Pam have crashed Ellie's 
car into Barry's, picked up the cuff 
links, and later driven the runaway 
truck? All to make Ellie look bad in 
Barry's eyes? Then when Barry said he was 
sticking with Ellie, Pam stabbed him."

   "Mm, I'd probably believe anything of 
Pam Disharoon. That woman has been 
difficult."

   Visions of the cadaver abruptly 
intruded. "Tom, can you stay on top of 
this cadaver question? To help Julian? 
Please?"

   Tom made his tone kind. "I promise. 
Don't worry, we can handle this. But I do 
have one thing that might interest you." 
I heard him shuffle papers. "A lawyer 
called us this morning, guy from a firm 
in Denver. Says his client is offering us 
evidence about the Barry Dean case, but 
only in exchange for immunity from 
prosecution by another governmental 
agency."

   "You mean, immunity from a federal 
agency? As in, Make the IRS leave me 
alone?" My heart started to thump.

   "Probably. Happens all the time. Only 
the IRS and other federal agencies don't 
prosecute. Not technically, anyway. They 
turn all their stuff over to a government 
attorney, who makes or doesn't make a 
case."

   I exhaled. "What kind of evidence was 
this guy offering?"

   "The attorney says his client will 
tell us why Dean had headaches."

   "You mean, the client knows who pushed 
Barry down?"

   "Probably. And it looks as if the guys 
are going to take the deal."

   While he mused aloud on the immunity 
question, I debated about confessing to 
my pill-bottle-in-the-apron discovery. It 
was finding the Vicodin that had spurred 
me to get the medical records faxed to 
me. But I hadn't actually told Tom about 
the Vicodin yet. If I showed Tom the 
pills, was there any way I'd be able to 
avoid being charged with evidence-
tampering? If the cops knew about Barry's 
headaches and their cause, would they 
really care so much about the painkillers 
themselves? I tried to remember if I'd 
ever seen Tom use my clarified butter, 
where I'd stashed the pills. I didn't 
think so.

   "Uh, well," I stammered. "Just let me 
know about the coroner, will you?"

   Tom paused. "You, uh, you don't know 
anything more about this headache deal, 
do you? I mean, I know you've . . . 
reviewed Dean's records."

   I gnawed the inside of my cheek, 
remembering my forging exercise to get 
Barry's medical records. "Sorry. Listen, 
are you going to be home for dinner? I. . 
. have a couple of new theories about. . 
. this and that."

   "I wish I didn't have to say 'I knew 
it.'"

   "I'll explain it all later, promise. 
See you at six." I bade him good-bye and 
hung up. Sometime in the next few hours, 
I had to figure out how I was going to 
present to Tom all the stuff I'd kept 
from him. My own head began to hurt.

   When I showed up at the classroom 
door, the teacher slipped out and asked 
if I was all right. I nodded. She 
informed me that the students had just 
started on the cadaver's spleen.

   "Is there any way," I asked, "that you 
could wait? There could be a question 
from the coroner's office - "

   "Wait? Wait for what? The class has 
waited for this trip the entire semester. 
If we don't proceed, we won't finish. We 
can't wait."

   "Well, it's just that I. . . thought I 
might have recognized the cadaver."

   The teacher's face turned as ashen as 
the corpse's. "Oh, dear! Mrs. Schulz, 
please! I really have to get back to my 
class. What are you going to do?"

   "I'll just... go to my van," I 
faltered. And hope for whoever Tom's 
deputy could muster to put an end to 
this, before more evidence was destroyed. 
I knew I couldn't go back into the lab. 
Say the coroner did appear and demanded, 
"Which mom called about this cadaver?" 
Arch would never speak to me again.

   Instead, I sat in my van and tried to 
raise Pam Disharoon on the cell. No 
answer. I gave up when the anatomy class 
rushed out the hospital doors. The five 
boys I'd brought squeezed into the van in 
high spirits. All were eager for a gross-
out competition. The snow had turned to 
slush on the interstate, so I 
concentrated on my driving. It was better 
than listening to merrily delivered 
descriptions of each organ, and how it 
was not as bad as the dead bat they'd 
found on a Scouts expedition or the dead 
elk their dad had scraped off the Rover 
bumper.

   To my great surprise, Tom was already 
home when Arch and I got there, putting 
the finishing touches on a cake with 
shiny chocolate icing. Comforted by his 
presence in the kitchen, I gave him a big 
hug, washed my hands, and got to work 
myself. While I defrosted stock and 
sautéed mushrooms, he told me he hadn't 
heard anything back yet on any of my 
inquiries. I tried to put the case out of 
my head as I energetically chopped 
vegetables for the salad I'd intended to 
serve at the Stockhams' lunch before 
changing the menu.

   Because salads of chopped ingredients 
were all the rage among the Shop-Till-
You-Drop set these days, I'd dubbed the 
creation Chopping Spree Salad. First I 
placed some hearts of palm into water to 
remove the brine, then assembled the rest 
of the ingredients. Since I was a great 
fan of limes for tanginess, I'd decided 
to feature lime in both the grilled 
chicken and the dressing itself. I sliced 
several of the bright green citrus globes 
and juiced them, then pounded fresh 
chicken breasts between layers of plastic 
wrap. After I'd whisked together a 
marinade of lime juice and olive oil, I 
carefully placed the breasts into it. 
Then I rewashed my hands and set about 
slicing and dicing a mountain of crisp 
romaine lettuce, flavorful vine-grown 
tomatoes, crunchy, barely sweet jicama, 
and fat scallions. Yum. While I preheated 
the indoor grill, I pulverized fresh and 
ground herbs in my mini food processor 
and whisked them with more lime juice, a 
bit of mayonnaise, and a touch of cream. 
Tasting the spicy mélange, I decided to 
add a bit more tang by grating in some 
aged Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese. The 
result was a rich, sharp ranch-style 
dressing that would have sent Escoffier 
spinning in his grave. So what, I thought 
smugly, as I toasted pine nuts for a 
finishing touch. Soon the luscious scent 
of the grilling chicken brought Tom and 
Arch clomping back into the kitchen.

Chopping Spree Salad

1 pound skinless, boneless chicken 
breasts
¼ cup fresh lime juice
¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil
1 large head romaine lettuce, outer
  leaves removed
4 canned hearts of palm, well rinsed 
Nonstick cooking spray
¼ cup pine nuts or blanched, slivered
  almonds
½ cup diced fresh jicama
1 cup seeded diced tomato (about 2 medium
  tomatoes)
½ cup trimmed, thinly sliced scallions
  (about 2 scallions)
Tangy Lime Dressing (recipe follows)

   Place the chicken breasts between 
sheets of plastic wrap and pound them 
with a mallet to a 13-inch thickness. 
Slice each breast in half lengthwise.

   In a 9 xl3-inch glass pan, mix the 
juice with the oil and place the chicken 
into this marinade while you prepare the 
rest of the ingredients and dressing, 
about 15 to 20 minutes.

   Wash the head of romaine very well, 
then cut an inch off the top to make an 
even edge. Carefully slice the rest of 
the head into 1/2-inch slices. You should 
have about 8 cups of romaine pieces. 
Rinse these well, spin them to remove any 
moisture, and wrap them in paper towels. 
Chill until you are ready to assemble the 
salad.

   Place the rinsed hearts of palm into a 
bowl of cold water and allow them to soak 
for 5 minutes to remove the brine.

   While the hearts of palm are soaking, 
lightly spray a small sauté pan with 
nonstick spray (or use a nonstick pan) 
and toast the pine nuts over medium-low 
to medium heat. Stir frequently to 
prevent burning. When the pine nuts are 
just beginning to turn golden brown (3 or 
4 minutes), remove them from the heat, 
place on a plate to cool, and set aside 
until you are ready to assemble the 
salad.

   Remove the hearts of palm from the 
water, pat them dry with paper towels, 
and cut them into 1/4-inch discs. Wrap 
the pieces in a paper towel and chill 
until you are ready to assemble the 
salad.

   Dice the jicama and tomatoes, slice 
the scallions, and set aside. Spray the 
grill with nonstick spray and preheat the 
grill while you prepare the Tangy Lime 
Dressing.

   Grill the chicken over medium-high to 
high heat for about 4 minutes per side, 
or until it is cooked through but not 
dry. Remove the chicken to a cutting 
board, cool slightly, and cut into bite-
sized pieces.

   Place the lettuce, hearts of palm, 
jicama, tomatoes, scallions, and chicken 
in a large, attractive salad bowl. Toss 
with half of the dressing, then add the 
dressing by tablespoons until the salad 
is lightly dressed, not overdressed. (You 
may have a bit of dressing left over.) 
Sprinkle the toasted pine nuts on top and 
serve immediately.

Makes 4 large servings

11 
Tangy Lime Dressing:

½ garlic clove, minced
¼ teaspoon dried fines herbes
  (available in the spice section of the
  grocery store)
1 teaspoon minced fresh parsley
1 ½ teaspoons minced fresh cilantro
1/3 cup buttermilk
1 ½ tablespoons fresh lime juice
1/3 cup best-quality mayonnaise
3 tablespoons (or more) heavy cream
1 tablespoon finely grated Parmigiano-
  Reggiano cheese
Salt and freshly ground black pepper, to 
taste

   Place the garlic, fines herbes, 
parsley, and cilantro into a miniature 
food processor and blend until 
pulverized, less than a minute. In a 
medium-size bowl, whisk together the 
buttermilk with the lime juice and 
mayonnaise until well combined and 
smooth. Whisk in the garlic-spice 
mixture, the cream, and the cheese, 
blending until smooth. Taste very 
carefully and add more cream if the 
dressing seems too tangy. Add salt 
judiciously, as the mayonnaise and cheese 
are already salty. Grind in some pepper 
and taste again. Use immediately.

   At six, Arch, Tom, and I sat down to a 
meal of steaming cream of mushroom soup, 
heated cornmeal rolls, and dressing-
topped slices of hot grilled chicken over 
an enormous bed of crisp, fresh, sliced, 
and diced vegetables. Arch and Tom could 
not have cared less what the dish was 
named, nor did they give a hoot about it 
being the fad among mall-crawlers. They 
dug into the salad as if they hadn't 
eaten for days. (Come to think of it, 
Arch and Tom didn't care much about 
Escoffier, either.)

   Ah, men! Ah, food!

   After supper and two pieces of Tom's 
melt-in-your-mouth chocolate cake, Arch 
announced that he had to write up the 
field trip.

   "Did anyone come in before you left?" 
I couldn't help asking. "To. . . claim 
the body?"

   He blinked. "Yeah, Mom. Some woman 
crashed through the door, grabbed the 
cadaver, and screamed, 'Dad! Where have 
you been?"

   I shook my head while Arch and Tom 
exchanged grins. "Someone from the 
coroners office, Arch."

   "Oh!" Arch shook his head. "No." He 
dumped a third piece of cake onto his 
dish and disappeared upstairs.

   I busied myself wrapping up the 
unchopped vegetables. Tom started on the 
dishes. After I'd stored the leftovers in 
the walk-in, he asked me to sit down so 
we could talk. My mind reeled off an "Uh-
oh," and I uneasily took a seat.

   "You showed me those pages you got 
from Dean's doctor's office," he began. 
He was drying the bowl I'd used for the 
salad. "But the guys working the case 
didn't find the prescription the doc made 
that Dean had just filled. A bottle of 
Vicodin Extra Strength."

   I swallowed. "From what you've told 
me, they couldn't find a lot of things."

   "The prescription was only for twenty 
pills," Tom went on. "If you assume 
Julian is innocent, then somebody 
followed Dean to that shoe department to 
kill him. Our perp saw an opportunity - 
customers have left, clerks gone for a 
moment, big cabinet to hide behind - and 
took it. Then when the killer was 
slipping out, maybe he or she saw the 
clerks coming back to clean up. Or maybe 
the killer saw you coming in with the 
guitar. Barry Dean was barely alive, so 
our perp shoved him into the cabinet. 
Still, Barry might tell you who stabbed 
him. So the perp panics. Whacks you with 
the guitar and calls nine-one-one. Julian 
shows up, tries to pull the knife out of 
Barry, and gets arrested. Hitting you and 
incriminating Julian were unplanned."

   "So you think Barry's murder was 
premeditated. How does the sheriff's 
department see it? The same as you?"

   "That depends," Tom mused. "At this 
point, they're just trying to gather 
enough evidence to turn this thing over 
to the district court." He gave me the 
full benefit of his ocean-green eyes. 
"The only thing that's going to help 
Julian is if our guys find out who killed 
Barry Dean. I don't know if they're 
telling me everything about the case. But 
I have to warn you that the trail is 
getting cold. It's been over forty-eight 
hours since you discovered the body." I 
tsked while Tom continued: "Our guys 
turned Dean's house inside out, went 
through his two cars and his boat. When 
they pulled their detail off his place, 
they still hadn't found much. Julian's 
Rover, his apartment? Nothing there, 
either."

   I groaned. "I can just imagine the 
mess the cops must have made at Julian's 
place."

   "You know how I got that chocolate 
icing shiny tonight?"

   "How?"

   He reached into his pocket, pulled out 
Barry Dean's Vicodin prescription, and 
placed it on the table. "I used an 
ingredient I hardly ever use. Your 
clarified butter. The kind you keep in 
the freezer."

   "Tom, I was going to tell you. . ."

   "Uh-huh."

   "They. . . the pills, they slipped 
into my apron pocket somehow when I was 
on the shoes, you know, beside Barry . . 
. . The bottle must have fallen out of 
his pocket. That's how I got Barry's 
doctor's name."

   "Goldy, you should have handed these 
over. With both of us handling them, 
there's not a hope of prints now."

   "I was just trying to help Julian. How 
can I trust the sheriffs department, when 
all they're trying to do is find evidence 
to convict Julian? But I'll turn them in 
tomorrow, if you want."

   Tom arched an eyebrow. "I'll do it," 
he told me gently. "Remember, I already 
told our guys about the shoving incident 
. . . that was in the doctor's report. 
They went out to the site - logical place 
to look for a ditch, since Barry worked 
at the mall. Sure enough, we found two 
witnesses who claim it was a woman who 
did the pushing.

   We're figuring it was one of Dean's 
two girlfriends. Ellie McNeely or that 
lady who works in lingerie."

   "You're kidding!" I was incredulous. 
"That's it? No description?"

   "That's it," he said, as he pocketed 
the pills and gave me a skeptical look.

   "Tom, I really meant what I said about 
being sorry; About hiding the pills."

   "Yeah, yeah, Miss G. Sorry until the 
next time."

   “No more evidence from crime scenes. I 
swear it."

   "Yeah, yeah."

   He couldn't have been too angry. Or 
maybe I convinced him my contrition was 
sincere. I say this because a couple of 
hours later, once snow was again falling 
quietly and the house was hushed, Tom 
pulled me up the stairs and we made love. 
Afterward, wrapped in his warm arms, I 
drifted off, thinking that it sure would 
be nice if we could both take a vacation. 
Then, at least for a couple of weeks, we 
could make love all the time.

   Thursday morning, I awoke feeling 
groggy. To my astonishment, a new five-
inch blanket of snow had muted not only 
the traffic noise coming up from Main 
Street, but Arch's and Tom's getting-
ready-to-go shuffling about. My body had 
apparently demanded, and received, its 
long overdue dose of sleep. I went 
through a slow yoga routine, showered, 
and dressed. This was the day of the 
shopaholics meeting at the mall, which I 
fully intended to attend. Today I also 
would try to talk to Pam and/or Victor, 
if they'd see me. Ah, but for the 
meeting, I needed something else. . . .

   I reached for a brown ski hat that I'd 
crocheted in a burst of domestic-goddess 
energy, back during one of Goldilocks' 
Catering's slow periods. In the end, the 
knobbles and swirls I'd crafted into the 
cap had made it too big and cumbersome 
for skiing. Now the thing looked like a 
twenties-era flapper's cap. Or maybe a 
chocolate-colored wig. But it was perfect 
to disguise myself for my foray to 
Shopaholics Anonymous.

   Tom had left me a note on the kitchen 
counter.

Miss G.: The corpse was Lucas Holden. 
Found in a motel near Durango, dead of a 
heart attack, no sign of struggle or 
forced entry. Coroners office is looking 
into the situation, but its going to take 
a while. Sorry to say, our guys didn't 
find anything up at that portable toilet. 
Too much new snow. I'11 pick up Arch 
today. He says they're doing lacrosse 
drills in the gym. See you at six. T

   Remembering my promise to bring 
cookies to Victor Wilson, the excavator-
cum-construction-manager, I removed a 
batch of homemade currant-cookie dough 
from the freezer and preheated the oven. 
Then I pulled a double espresso, reread 
Tom's note, and sipped the coffee. Even 
after the pop of caffeine, a weight 
seemed to be pressing on my chest and 
dragging my spirits netherward. I just 
could not believe that Lucas Holden would 
have quit his job at the mall in an angry 
huff, then conveniently died only days 
later in a motel in southwestern 
Colorado. Maybe Lucas was the "friend" 
who'd pushed Barry Dean down. Then again, 
he hadn't looked even remotely womanly.

   I sliced the log of rich, currant-
specked dough into thin disks and popped 
them into the oven. I set the timer and 
wondered about these witnesses who'd said 
a woman had pushed Barry down so that he 
fell into a ditch. If this included the 
guy who'd supposedly seen Julian driving 
the dump truck, then the first thing 
everybody at the construction site needed 
- after they had some cookies - was a 
trip to the ophthalmologist.

   OK, say Lucas saw the person who'd 
pushed Barry into that ditch. And then 
someone had, someone had, someone had . . 
. what? My mind circled back to the idea 
of Lucas Holden being followed and 
injected with something lethal. With no 
autopsy done on an unsuspicious death 
that resulted in a donated cadaver, there 
wouldn't have been a drug or any other 
kind of screen.

   The fragrant smell of baking cookies 
infused the kitchen. When the tantalizing 
treats were done, I carefully placed them 
on racks, and pulled another espresso. I 
munched thoughtfully on a buttery, 
crunchy cookie, whose texture was 
perfectly balanced with the sweet 
chewiness of the currants. I washed the 
cookies down with the espresso, and 
peered out the kitchen window at the new-
fallen snow.

   My face in the glass reflected doubt 
about all the speculative roads my mind 
seemed bent on exploring. Then I thought 
of Julian waking up in jail for the third 
morning, and phoned Helen Keith, 
assistant coroner for Furman County.

   Helen Keith was a fiftyish, unmarried, 
longtime colleague of Tom's. They were 
also longtime friends. He admired her 
professionalism; she appreciated his work 
ethic. Maybe she'd extend that 
appreciation to my attempts at amateur 
sleuthing. Then again, maybe not.

   Helen answered on the first ring, and 
I genially reminded her who I was, that 
we'd visited at sheriff's department 
barbecues two summers in a row, and 
wasn't it great we could touch base? Not 
fooled, Helen politely said she was 
waiting for an important call. I took a 
deep breath and asked if we could have a 
quick chat. She assented.

   I gave her an abbreviated version of 
recognizing Lucas Holden's missing-toe 
cadaver. In an Oh-by-the-way fashion, I 
asked if her office could do a standard 
drug screen on Holden's body.

   "Goldy, I know that you have a friend 
in jail. But the tests aren't going to be 
easy, and the results certainly won't be 
quick," she replied, her voice matter-of-
fact. "But since this corpse was 
connected to a crime, we'd be doing a 
drug screen anyway."

   "Ah, well. Thanks. Any chance I could 
find out if he had any drugs in him?"

   Helen Keith laughed. "Good-bye, 
Goldy." I guessed that was a no.

   On the way to the mall, I tried again 
to call Pam Disharoon. No luck. Ditto 
with Kim Fury. Liz Fury, however, 
answered her cell on the first ring - 
understandable for a mother who must be 
worried sick about her son. I told her 
this wasn't about catering work. Then I 
asked about Teddy.

   "They haven't found him yet." Her 
concern crackled through the cell. "There 
was some activity on the credit cards, 
but it was all over Denver."

   "All over Denver? Er, how's he getting 
around?"

   Immediately her tone became 
suspicious. "Why?"

   "I just . . .look, somebody hinted 
that Teddy stole Ellie McNeely's car one 
day at the mall," I blurted out.

   "He did not take Ellie's car. Teddy. . 
. isn't a very good driver. He hates 
driving. He wouldn't steal a car. He has 
friends who drive him, most of the time 
You're breaking up, Goldy. I have to go."

   She disconnected before I could ask 
her if Teddy might like driving big 
trucks more than he liked driving cars.

   At Westside Mall, the blanket of snow 
had not slowed construction. In fact, the 
building process seemed more frenzied 
than ever. I pulled the van up by a 
plastic fence that now prevented folks 
from parking in the hard-hat area and 
watched the flurry of activity in 
amazement. Workers using pickaxes broke 
through frozen slush - the former 
parking-lot drainage lake - to lay pipe. 
Beyond the newly smoothed sidewalk, two 
loaders belching black smoke chugged 
around the rim of a huge pit whose snow-
filled bottom resembled a bowl of muddied 
meringue. Victor, wearing his usual day-
glo orange hard hat, strode back and 
forth, pointing and barking orders. When 
he'd finished hollering at one group of 
workmen and yelling at a second, he 
hopped into a bright green golf cart and 
bumped over ruts to the next problem 
area.

   "Excuse me!" I hailed him, once I'd 
stuffed the bag of cookies into my purse, 
stepped awkwardly over the plastic fence, 
and skirted a Porsche with the license 
plate DIRT GUY. Victor was scowling at 
the clipboard in his hands. When he 
turned the stare and the scowl in my 
direction, however, he smiled.

   "The caterer!" He sounded plugged up, 
as if he had a bad cold. Laboring in the 
snow and cold wind probably didn't help. 
"How're you doing? Bringing us goodies?"

   "You bet! If I'd known your crew was 
working in this weather, I would have 
brought you cocoa, too. Do you have a 
minute to talk?"

   He tucked the clipboard under his arm. 
"Great idea. Let's go into the trailer 
and have some coffee."

   People were always very cordial in 
anticipation of food you'd brought, I 
reflected, as I followed Victor to the 
construction trailer. I leaped across an 
area where two workers were putting in 
pipe, then carefully ascended the wobbly, 
ice-slick wooden steps to the trailer. 
Once through the bent aluminum door, I 
looked around. The trailer resembled the 
inside of a much-battered can. Worse, it 
was poorly warmed by glowing space 
heaters. At the desk inside the door, a 
bulky woman in her sixties silently 
thrust her formidable chin in my 
direction. Using a pencil, she scratched 
her scalp through her thinning black 
hair. She was watching my every move.

   "Victor," she said in a low voice, 
"have you taken that sinus medication I 
gave you?"

   "Not yet, Rhonda. I just need to have 
a bit of a visit with - "

   Rhonda's fleshy jowls jiggled as she 
addressed me. "No reporters yet, miss. 
We'll have a big press party in six 
weeks, and then you can - "

   "I'm not a reporter - "

   "It's OK," Victor interrupted. "We'll 
only be a few minutes."

   "Mall management said no journalists, 
Mr. Wilson," she scolded him loudly, the 
edginess provided for my benefit. "And I 
have six urgent messages here for you." 
She waved a handful of pink slips and 
sent another glower in my direction. 
Rhonda's look said Every one of these is 
more important than you, bitch.

   Victor ignored Rhonda's protectiveness 
and handed me a foam cup of muddy coffee 
that he murmured might not be fresh, but 
was definitely hot. Huddled beside one of 
the space heaters, I thanked him 
gratefully. He gestured toward diet 
sweetener and nondairy creamer, non-food 
inventions that I wish could be relegated 
to kindergarten projects involving glue 
and construction paper. I declined and 
grinned in Rhonda's direction, tempted to 
ask for real cream. Sensing a demand, she 
narrowed her eyes and jutted out that 
scary chin.

   "Let's go in my office," Victor 
mumbled. I followed him into a walled-off 
cubicle, where he shut the plywood door, 
removed his hard hat, and shrugged out of 
his filthy overcoat. Then he nodded to a 
metal chair on the near side of his 
paper-strewn desk.

   "Thanks," I said again. "I really 
won't be but a few minutes.

   Here you go," I added, pulling the 
zipped plastic bag of cookies out of my 
purse. "My thanks for helping the other 
day."

   "No problem," he replied cheerfully as 
he settled into his own squeaky desk 
chair. He unzipped the bag, put in a hand 
so dirty I shuddered, and brought out 
half a dozen cookies. Pushing a whole one 
into his mouth, he nodded, mumbled 
gratitude, and washed the crumbs down 
with the coffee.

   As I watched him, I wondered why I'd 
ever thought catering was so demanding. 
Construction had to be much worse. 
Victor's haggard cheeks glowed with 
grime, and his bloodshot eyes made me 
wonder if he was getting any sleep. After 
he finished a second cookie, he reached 
for a foil packet, probably Rhonda's 
sinus meds. Pulling off the foil, he 
popped the pills into his mouth, then 
washed them down with more of the dark 
swill in his cup. He winced and said, 
"'Scuse me."

   "You probably shouldn't be working if 
you're sick." Would my controlling-mom 
voice never shut up?

   Victor gave me a half-grin. "Fat 
chance. Listen, I never got a chance to 
apologize about that truck situation. We 
figure it was a guy from the old crew, a 
misfit that No-toe Holden, Our former 
construction manager, fired. The guy's 
name is Jorge Sanchez. Sanchez is your 
standard disgruntled worker. Sometimes 
they come back, try to steal equipment or 
vehicles. Anyway, I'm really sorry about 
that, if you're here looking for someone 
to take the blame."

   "No, that's not why I'm here." I 
smiled. "You've been on this project, 
what? A year?"

   Victor blew on his coffee, took a sip, 
and let out a long breath. From the 
beginning. Eleven months. Got promoted 
when Holden quit." He furrowed his brow. 
"Hey, sorry about Rhonda, too. You've got 
to understand we're under a ton of 
pressure here. We've got a drywall 
contractor refusing to send a crew out 
and landscapers claiming they can't put 
in bushes until the snow melts. Half of 
the interiors are painted the wrong 
colors. The portable toilets haven't been 
cleaned in two weeks, and I've got guys 
passing out from the stench. And that's 
just today."

   Hey, don't talk to me about portable 
toilets. I pretended to sip some of the 
viscous black liquid, then set the foam 
cup on a grubby plastic table. "Actually, 
the problem is a . . . this friend of 
ours ended up in jail after Barry Dean 
was killed - "

   Victor nodded and rubbed his filthy 
forehead. "Yeah, I know. Poor Dean. He 
really wanted to see this project 
finished." He drank more coffee, then 
sighed. "And I'm sorry about your friend. 
I know one of our guys said that the kid 
who was with you was driving our truck 
when Dean nearly got killed. I never did 
see who exactly was driving that truck. I 
still think it was Sanchez."

   Since I was quite sure that someone, 
if not several people, would come forward 
and say that Julian had been running up 
the parking lot, and not driving the 
truck, I let this pass.

   "You know, if I just could have more 
crew," Victor was explaining, "we could 
have had more supervision of the - "

   "Victor," I said quickly, to forestall 
more apologies, "there's going to be 
something in the newspaper, probably in a 
few days. Lucas Holden has been found 
dead."

   He dropped his coffee cup. "Oh, 
Christ!" Shaking his head, he rolled back 
his chair and stared at the mess at his 
feet in disbelief. Then he grabbed a 
handful of tissues from a dusty box and 
threw them onto the floor. "Did he kill 
himself?"

   Now it was my turn to be surprised. 
Suicide was not a possibility I'd even 
contemplated. And Helen Keith certainly 
hadn't mentioned it.

   "Heart attack, I think," I stammered. 
"But . . . I guess I was hoping to find 
out about his background. I'm thinking 
maybe there's something in it that could 
help our friend in jail."

   "I'll bet it was suicide. No-toe was 
just so damned depressed," Victor 
continued gloomily, as if he were 
thinking of offing himself, to end his 
own remorse about everything. "One day, 
he just said, 'I quit.'" He shook his 
head in disgust. "Some guys just can't 
take the pressure of construction."

   "I need to ask you about the time 
before Holden quit. About a month ago. 
Was Holden the one who pushed Barry down, 
so that he landed in a ditch out here on 
the construction site? Or did he see who 
pushed Barry?"

   Victor's thin eyebrows rose. "No. It 
wasn't No-toe. But how did you hear about 
that?"

   "Oh, you know, some gossip was 
reported in the paper . . ."

   His voice turned cautious. "Well, 
Barry told us to keep our mouths shut 
about that incident. If it got out, he 
said, things would, get worse for him. 
That's what he said. They're putting 
pipes and cables in that ditch now, but 
it was about seven feet deep before."

   "Did you see who pushed him?"

   "Yeah. I did." He lowered his voice. 
My skin crawled, and I imagined the 
dreaded Rhonda with one of her large ears 
pressed against the thin door.

   "So did No-toe," Victor added, just 
above a whisper. I waited, heart 
hammering. "Dean had had a real bad fight 
with his girlfriend," he continued. "One 
of 'em, anyway. Dean was two-timing, see. 
But if you heard about the ditch thing, 
you probably heard that, too." I nodded. 
Victor squirmed, then finally whispered, 
"That girlfriend was here the day of the 
truck thing. Anyway, she didn't push him 
down so that he fell into a ditch, she 
pushed him into the ditch. Right then, 
Dean screamed, 'Don't! Ellie, don't!'" 
Victor's bloodshot eyes squinted at me. 
"So. Do you know this Ellie?"

-17-
   At the mention of my friend's name, I 
made my face blank and, shivering, tugged 
my coat around me. The office's little 
space heater suddenly seemed woefully 
inadequate. "I sort of know her," I 
evaded.

   "I found out her last name when her 
car got crashed into Dean's Mercedes," 
Victor told me. "It was in the newspaper. 
McNeely. Wealthy woman who swears she 
wasn't driving." He grinned in mock 

defeat. "The rich never have to pay. You 
and I work our butts off and we get what? 
Hot kitchens, freezing offices, and no 
appreciation." He stopped to pullout a 
tissue. "Ever notice?"

   While he blew his nose, I cleared my 
throat, and looked around the room again. 
Plans, charts, and notes were pinned to 
every bit of wall space. Victor was right 
about one thing: I'd already decided I 
wouldn't want to work in this frigid, 
disorganized environment.

   I asked, "Did anyone besides you and 
Holden see Ellie McNeely push Barry into 
the ditch?"

   "It was early in the morning," Victor 
replied. "Couple of guys might have been 
around. We were discussing delays on the 
project, when this woman comes running up 
and starts screaming at Dean about how he 
had a commitment to her." The phone rang 
and he answered it. "They are?" he said, 
with a glance at the clock. "OK. Just a 
coupla minutes more, I swear." He 
grinned. "Yeah, thanks. I took 'em." 
Clearly, the omniscient and nosy Rhonda 
was trying to throw her weight around.

   As he hung up the phone, I stood. 
"Victor, I appreciate your seeing me. Did 
you tell the police the details of this 
ditch incident?"

   He shook his head. "No. They asked me 
if Dean had any enemies, and I said I 
didn't know of any. He had a coupla 
people he didn't get along with, I told 
'em, like his two girlfriends and No-toe.

   But I didn't want to get one 
girlfriend over another in trouble. 
Anyway, Rhonda just called to say the 
cops are on their way over. They've got a 
coupla more questions, apparently. Do you 
think I should tell them this McNeely 
lady pushed Barry?"

   "That's up to you." I thanked him 
again, picked up the foam cup, and backed 
out of the tiny, icy office.

   "Real sorry about your friend in 
jail," Victor called after me.

   I ignored Rhonda's vicious glare, 
clomped out of the trailer, and poured 
the dark liquid into the ditch. Could 
Ellie really have pushed Barry in there, 
when it was seven feet deep? Was it 
possible she could have set up the whole 
portable toilet incident, just to look 
innocent in my eyes? I simply could not 
fathom it.

   A sudden icy wind blasted my nostrils 
with a horrid stench. I gagged and stared 
at the stinking turquoise portable 
toilets. They were scribbled with racist 
graffiti. Wetbacks Go Home!! was scrawled 
beneath a Spanish retort that I 
translated, more politely than it was 
written, as We can't wait to go back to 
Mexico, and good luck having an 
incestuous relationship with your mother. 
So much for racial harmony on the job 
site.

   Near the plastic fence, a Hispanic man 
was hovering between my car and the 
Porsche. He was dressed in the garb of a 
construction worker, and was putting one 
of those bright orange ads under my 
windshield. Just what I needed, an 
encouragement to do yet more shopping. 
Before he could put an ad under the 
Porsche's windshield, a Furman County 
prowler pulled up. The ad-placer vanished 
as the prowler disgorged two men. They 
were detectives, no doubt . . . and maybe 
they would give a ticket to someone 
illegally distributing ads to parked 
cars.

   The workmen hacking at the ice stopped 
to stare at the cop car. Bucking the 
wind, I ignored the detectives, and made 
my way toward the mall. On the way, I 
tossed my cup into the overflowing 
Dumpster with such fury that it bounced 
up, was caught by the wind, and sailed 
away.

   Tampering with evidence, disobeying my 
lawyer, and now littering. Pretty soon my 
charge sheet was going to have more 
scribbling on it than those toilets.

   Inside the mall, I ducked into a 
women's room and examined myself. My 
lips, nose, and cheeks were crimson from 
the cold. I reached into my bag and 
pulled out the crocheted cap, a small 
compact, and a pair of sunglasses. After 
doing a bit of damage control on my face, 
I put on the hat and glasses and emerged 
into the mall. I didn't know if I was 
incognito or not, but the sunglasses made 
everything awfully dark. I headed toward 
the Shopaholics Anonymous meeting, where 
I sincerely hoped I'd hear something 
useful, especially from Page Stockham, 
such as I'd kill to be able to keep 
shopping. In fact, thats exactly what 
I've done!

   A handwritten sign was taped beside 
the entrance to the shoppers' lounge: 
Private Meeting in Session. By the time I 
pushed through the lounge's massive 
doors, the group was reciting a posted 
list of the Twelve Steps. As I skirted 
the furniture - all put back in place 
since the jewelry-leasing party - I 
focused hard through my sunglasses on the 
attendees, who were clustered on three 
long couches around a pastry-laden coffee 
table. No Page. At least, not that I 
could tell.

   One member started reading aloud what 
sounded like a preamble. We are not so 
much concerned with debt, as are our 
colleagues in Debtors Anonymous, as we 
are with shopping itself, which we use as 
a drug to avoid dealing with our feelings 
of inadequacy. . . .

   The reader droned on as I looked 
around the room, where the atmosphere was 
palpably tense. To my surprise, the nine 
attendees were comprised of five men and 
four women. Five men! And here we women 
were always wondering what men were up to 
in those long trips to the hardware 
store. By inserting myself into the 
group, I created an even division between 
the sexes. I sat down as unobtrusively as 
possible and nodded at two welcoming 
smiles.

   "I'm George, and I'm a compulsive 
spender," one balding man began, as he 
lofted an éclair. Before the woman seated 
beside George could introduce herself, he 
added, mouth full, "I got a eating 
problem, too."

   Everyone laughed, and the edgy 
atmosphere vanished. At my turn, I said I 
was Gertrude - no lie, as this is my real 
name - and that I was visiting. A packet 
of pamphlets was pressed into my hands by 
George, who left chocolate smears on the 
top sheet. It began: If you do nothing 
but shop, you WILL drop. DEAD! Now there 
was a cheery thought.

   "My name is Page, and I'm a compulsive 
shopper," someone said.

   I sat up so quickly my crocheted hat 
wobbled and threatened to topple. Through 
the sunglasses, I hadn't spotted her. I 
slid off the sunglasses, put on my 
patented blank expression, then looked 
around. Page, who looked as if she, too, 
had come in disguise, was seated almost 
out of my range of view, at the far end 
of the couch. Her long blond hair was 
tied back in a bun that was concealed by 
an elaborately tied scarf. She, too, wore 
sunglasses - hers were of the aviator 
variety, and boasted pink lenses. Most 
atypically, she was clad in black tights 
and a black T-shirt, as if she'd just 
dropped in after ballet class. I did 
notice that despite the outfit, she wore 
a strand of large pearls - diamond clasp 
in front, so we'd know they were real - 
and a sparkly bracelet that (with my 
glasses off) looked like half a dozen 
strands of pink, yellow, and white 
diamonds. Why did wealthy women go out 
looking as if they'd just been to 
exercise class for hookers? Another 
unanswered question of the universe.

   Clearly, I was losing my perspective. 
I reminded myself to focus, then glanced 
at the tray of pastries. One of the women 
who'd smiled at me offered me a paper 
plate and plastic fork.

   "They're for everybody," she urged. 
"Food eases the pain."

   Well, I couldn't disagree with that. 
And I do love Linzer torte, I thought as 
I chewed into a big bite laden with 
spice, ground nuts, and raspberry 
preserves.

   A tiny woman with bobbed brown hair 
announced in a high voice, "My name is 
Carole and I'm a compulsive shopper."

   Everyone murmured a greeting to 
Carole. Her fingers nervously pleated her 
skirt. "My boyfriend left at Easter last 
year. For a while, I didn't feel 
anything. I was just numb. Then a friend 
insisted on getting me out of the house. 
She took me shopping."

   There was a chorus of groans. "It was 
weird," Carole went on. "I felt better 
once I bought a new sweater. It was a 
cabled pink mohair, and buying it and 
wearing it made me feel loved again. So 
my friend insisted on taking me to the 
mall again the next weekend. With new 
gray slacks, plus a matching belt and 
purse, my feelings improved even more. I 
mean, I felt alive again! Problem was, I 
had to spend more money each time I went. 
One new sweater became two new sweaters. 
Then four new sweaters. Then ten - all on 
one trip!"

   Carole began to sob. The group waited 
while one member handed her several 
tissues, and another put a plate with a 
cream puff in front of her.

   "Now," Carole continued between gulps, 
"I'm sixteen thousand dollars in debt on 
four credit cards. I have, uh . . . Last 
week, I finally did a count. Six hundred 
and thirty-two sweaters, most of them 
still with the price tags on them. The 
worst part is that on some trips, I must 
have had a memory loss or blackout. 
Almost a dozen times, I bought the same 
sweater twice." She stopped to blow her 
nose. "OK, but I do have some good news. 
I didn't buy a single sweater this week!" 
The group made supportive noises. Carole 
snuffled and managed a shy, red-nosed 
smile. "It was so hard! It's cold 
outside! And . . . oh, God, Talbot's just 
put their winter stuff on sale. I can 
barely walk by their window!"

   The group burst out laughing. Carole, 
recognizing the laughter was 
affectionate, not mocking, dug into her 
cream puff. Murmurs of "Oh, Carole" and 
"You should see the stuff on sale at 
Saks" accompanied big grins and hands 
reaching for babas au rhum. I glanced 
around for some coffee or tea to go with 
the pastries, but saw only a table lined 
with bottles of water. Maybe caffeine 
stimulated shopping, blast it. When Page 
stood and strode over to snag a water, I 
quickly turned back to the group.

   "So," Carole was saying, as she 
delicately wiped her mouth with a paper 
napkin, "now, instead of shopping, I'm 
looking forward to seeing you all, 
because you make me feel better. Not 
quite the way Rob my ex did, but close. 
And get this! On the way over here, I 
stopped at Goodwill, and left them two 
hundred and fifty-nine sweaters!"

   The group clapped wildly. Carole, 
blushing and triumphant, reached for 
another cream puff.

   "I'm Jack and I'm an image spender," a 
lanky fellow with gray hair offered. 
"Can't say I'm doing as well as Carole, 
sorry. Last week my ex-wife wanted to 
have a lunch meeting with our attorneys. 
This should have raised a red flag, but 
it didn't. I suggested we make it 
easygoing, you know, something modest, 
both lawyers and the two of us. At 
Duccio's." This time I gasped along with 
the group. Minimum tab at Duccio's on the 
Sixteenth Street Mall in downtown Denver, 
for one person having lunch, without 
liquor, would run about forty dollars. 
Add a single glass of wine, coffee, 
dessert, and tip, and you were looking at 
twice that. I had the feeling that Jack, 
in his gray pin-striped silk suit, 
Italian leather shoes, and imported tie, 
didn't know the concept of a modest 
lunch.

   "Of course," Jack went on, "it turned 
out to be a terrible meeting, full of 
wrangling over child support and 
visitation issues. Oysters and two 
bottles of Château Lafitte didn't help 
make things jovial, either." He sighed. 
"I'm twenty-two thousand dollars in debt, 
which Gail knows but pretends not to.” He 
gave the group a rueful grin. "Still, 
when the check came? I grabbed for it. I 
mean, I had to! It was like an unseen 
force pushed my hand to reach out for 
that slip of paper!" He paused. "Now I'm 
twenty-two thousand, four hundred and ten 
dollars in debt. Yesterday I went to the 
grocery store and bought a case of peanut 
butter. On sale." The group sighed. "But 
you all are here," Jack concluded with a 
wide grin. "And at least I can have free 
pastries on Thursdays!"

   "See, that's what bothers me!" Page 
Stockham burst out savagely, as the group 
murmured encouragement to Jack. There was 
a collective gasp. "People always angling 
to get free stuff," she added, her tone 
hostile. An uncomfortable silence ensued, 
interrupted only by the sounds of pastry-
eating.

   "Uh, my name is George, and, Page, 
remember that we have a format - "

   "My name is Page and I have a sister 
problem. I'm here because my therapist 
said it might help." The members 
squirmed. I peeked over at Page, who 
tilted up her chin and gazed defiantly 
down her nose at the group.

   "My sister has always been a taker," 
Page told us bitterly. "She gets into 
relationships with people by adoring 
them. These people are never low-income 
types, I should add. As soon as they 
start spending money on her, she adores 
them even more!" Page examined her 
manicured fingernails. "So rich folks, 
mostly guys, get addicted to being loved 
by my sister. Then she starts 
freeloading. First she gives them some 
sob story, of course. 'I just need to 
borrow your car because mine's not 
working.' Two weeks later she's all 'Your 
stepson wants this car back? What am I 
supposed to drive? Besides, you have five 
cars, can't he drive one of those? Don't 
you care about me?' Then she cries and 
withdraws affection from the rich guy, 
who feels guilty and finally gives her 
his damn car. She's a horrible flirt, of 
course. And a slut, I should say."

   For the first time in the meeting, no 
one was reaching for pastries. The 
members sat without moving, concentrating 
on appearing neutral, although frowns and 
pursed lips indicated creeping 
discomfort. You need help, girl, their 
expressions said. Jack, for his part, 
looked downright disgusted. Maybe he'd 
been seduced by Pam, too, and had bought 
her lunch at Duccio's.

   "OK," Page snarled, "I probably do 
shop too much. But I need to. My husband 
used to buy me nice things, and now he 
takes me for granted. I have to buy stuff 
for myself. Meanwhile, my slutty sister 
has a new boyfriend, or she had one, 
anyway, and she got him to give her 
discounts, big ones, on all kinds of 
stuff." Her voice turned shrill. "Another 
one of her boyfriends sweet-talked the 
dean at. . . his former college, so my 
sister could get into a special 
scholarship program to go to night school 
for her degree. Free! This new guy gave 
her furs and jewelry from. . . vendors or 
reps or whatever they're called. And then 
he bought her a round-trip ticket to 
Hawaii for next Christmas, because he 
knew the travel agent here in the . . . 
well, here." Her voice ramped up a few 
more notches. "This boyfriend even got 
Pam a fifty percent discount on . . . a 
piece of jewelry. Not to buy, but . . . 
to rent. And he leased it for her!" Page 
screamed, "And then this same guy . . . 
fired my husband, so we suddenly had no 
income! I was so furious I couldn't 
sleep! Couldn't eat! Couldn't drive!" She 
leaped to her feet. "That son of a bitch 
ruined our lives!"

   Page ran out of the room. Silence fell 
over the group. George said, "Next?"

   I wanted to follow Page, but my inner 
voice warned me to stay put. At this 
juncture, she'd be in no mood to chat. So 
I listened sympathetically to two more 
people talk, or as they called it, 
"share." One man was a bargain-hunter 
with six storage sheds full of stuff he 
never used. He said the seller always 
represented his mother, who'd withheld 
love from him as a child. By ruthlessly 
bargaining, he tried to outsmart the 
seller, so he could "get love for free." 
Except he never got the affection he 
needed, just lots of fishing rods and 
motorcycle parts. The final speaker, a 
very large woman with a pointed chin, 
announced that she was a codependent 
spender. She fingered her plastic dark 
glasses and tried to straighten her very 
crooked curly-haired wig.

   She said she had a compulsion to spend 
money on others. By giving people huge 
gifts, she was hoping they would love 
her. The previous year, she'd won fifty 
thousand dollars in the lottery, now all 
gone on presents for which she had not 
received a single thank-you note. Now she 
had to work a crummy job that caused her 
no end of stress.

   I squinted at her thoughtfully as the 
group broke up. "Why, Rhonda!" I 
whispered to myself, then hightailed it 
out of there.

   In the mall, shoppers scurried or 
moseyed past, many of them with that 
hungry, pinched look that said they were 
rushing for a bite to eat. Monday 
morning, I'd bemoaned the fact that I 
never had time for lunch out with Marla; 
now I was so stuffed with pastries and 
water that the idea of a midday meal made 
my very full stomach holler in protest.

   I pulled off the crocheted hat and 
found a chair. I needed to sit and think. 
Just down the staircase, the window of 
Westside Music displayed a painted 
banner: Open Late! With a start, I 
recalled that Arch's birthday was 
tomorrow. Tom had bought him a new 
lacrosse stick, helmet, and official-size 
goal, which he planned to put up in our 
backyard, snow be damned. He'd also 
promised to look for another guitar, 
since the much-desired one was dented, 
and not done being inspected by the cops. 
Still, I knew Arch well enough to be sure 
of this: The gift he would most cherish 
would be to have Julian at his party. So 
it was in the free-Julian department that 
I needed to continue to bend my efforts.

   I ran my fingers through my hair and 
reflected on the shopaholics' meeting. 
Page Stockham had confessed to a sister 
problem, a problem that appeared to have 
been very much aggravated by the presence 
of discount-supplying Barry Dean. My mind 
circled back to one of its many 
questions. Had Tom spurred the 
investigators to find out exactly where 
Page - and Ellie too, for that matter - 
had been after the two women split from 
Marla? Would the desires to a) have 
revenge on the man who evicted her 
husband's profitable store, and b) 
deprive a sibling of her ride on the 
gravy train, be sufficient motive to kill 
Barry?

   There was one person I had not been 
able to talk to, but who, in light of the 
shopaholics' meeting, I now desperately 
needed to see. I headed toward Prince & 
Grogan. With Julian facing formal charges 
the next morning, I might have to buy a 
hundred dollars' worth of nighties from 
Barry Dean's onetime girlfriend. But wait 
- there was one detail of Page's story 
that I needed to check out first. I 
turned and quickly headed toward the mall 
management office.

   Heather the receptionist looked quite 
a bit cheerier than when I'd seen her 
earlier in the week. She'd had her hair 
colored with bright pink streaks and cut 
in a new, spiky do. New fluorescent pink 
nail polish and lipstick matched her 
hair. She looked like an ad for pink 
lemonade, which she happened to be 
drinking from a plastic cup. When I 
entered the office, she set down the 
lemonade by her half-eaten personal 
pizza, which, I shuddered to see, was 
topped with ham and pineapple.

   "The caterer!" Heather exclaimed, then 
clapped her hand over her mouth. "Oops! 
Did I forget to call you?"

   For a horrid, sinking moment, I 
thought Rob Eakin, the interim mall 
manager, might have changed his mind 
about the canceled prospective tenants' 
lunch, originally scheduled for that day. 
If so, and Heather Featherbrain had 
forgotten to notify me, then all my worry 
about success would be something I'd 
laugh about as my business went under. 
You simply do not fail to show up to 
cater an affair.

   "First of all," she said, handing me a 
check, "here's a new payment for your 
gratuity. Rob Eakin cut another check, 
since the cops are keeping everything. 
Plus, I found what you were looking for," 
Heather continued brightly. She sucked 
noisily on her straw. "Barry did leave 
you something."

   "Oh, Heather." I groaned, thinking of 
Julian's haggard face behind the jail 
glass. "Why didn't you call me? For 
crying out loud, this is about a murder 
case!"

   "Look, I'm sorry, but we've been 
busy," she cried. "It's been nuts around 
here, with the crews working day and 
night, and Rob trying to stave off the 
potential tenants. Plus, somebody just 
called here to ask for a comment about 
our old construction manager turning up 
dead. It's like, this mess never stops."

   "Just give me whatever it is, would 
you please? Then I need to ask you 
something about Barry."

   "Not again!" she protested as she 
wedged past her desk and nabbed a manila 
envelope that was cantilevered off a 
filing cabinet. "I've got a ton of stuff 
to do!"

   I didn't remark about her seeming to 
have time for so-called Hawaiian pizza 
and pink lemonade or for getting her hair 
done. Instead, I eyed the envelope that 
had a scrawled Goldy-Dog File across it.

   "Where did you find this?" I asked.

   "Barry had a file labeled 'Catering.' 
The cops went through it but didn't take 
stuff from it, it looks like." She was 
peering at the envelope in my hand with 
undisguised curiosity. "Your contracts 
were in the file, plus that manila 
envelope. What's a dog file?"

   "I have no idea, and I doubt I'll find 
out anytime soon." I tucked the envelope 
under my arm. "Look, I'm sorry to be 
crabby but - "

   "It's all right," she said, suddenly 
contrite. Maybe all this new cheer of 
hers was just her way of denying what had 
happened to her boss.

   "A friend of ours is in jail - "

   "I heard. Your assistant."

   "My assistant did not kill Barry," I 
said emphatically. "And I'm trying to 
find out who did." When she wrinkled her 
nose, I persisted. "Will you help me?"

   She took a sip of lemonade. She said, 
"I'll try," without much enthusiasm.

   "What I need to know now," I told 
Heather earnestly, "is about discounts 
and gifts that Barry received. Say, from 
stores. Reps. Vendors. Stuff that might, 
you know, make people jealous."

   Heather's forehead wrinkled. She 
didn't seem to be thinking so much as 
trying to find a way to say something 
unsavory. When I cleared my throat 
impatiently, she eased back into her 
chair. "We're supposed to have a no-gift 
policy . . . ."

   "Supposed to?" She took a bite of 
pizza and avoided my eyes. After a 
moment, she said, "Before Barry took 
over, the only discount we got was at the 
mall's fast food places. But when the 
expansion started, stores were really 
wild to get in here." Her hand went to 
her throat, where she fingered a thin 
gold chain. "Barry, uh, did take gifts. 
He gave a lot of them away, though," she 
added hastily. "I mean, he didn't need a 
woman's diamond Rolex or a monthly 
getaway trip to some exotic place like 
Maui."

   I gripped the lumpy envelope. 
"Heather, this is terribly important. I 
have to know the truth. I need to know 
about specific things he received." In 
fact, that was what I'd been mulling over 
since Page's outburst at the meeting: Is 
this true? Or is jealous Page imagining 
or exaggerating gifts Barry gave Pam?

   "All right, all right!" Heather cried, 
blushing. "Barry . . . gave me this 
chain, a free gift from Barton's Jewelry! 
And he gave my dad a case of Glenlivet. 
My mom asked for a Vuitton bag and he 
surprised her with it. That's it, I 
promise! We didn't take any other gifts 
from Barry and I don't know where he got 
the stuff. So . . . are you going to turn 
me in?"

   I exhaled and remembered that someone 
with evidence about Barry's headaches had 
hired a lawyer to offer that evidence in 
exchange for immunity from prosecution. 
Would that prosecution have been for 
receiving gifts without paying gift or 
income taxes? "What did Barry give Pam 
Disharoon? Do you know?"

   Heather's eyes widened. "Nobody knows 
that for sure. But lots of people wanted 
to."

   "Like?"

   "That private eye," she replied, with 
a dramatic wave of one hand. No question, 
this girl had seen too many TV crime 
shows. "The cops. And some tall blond 
woman who said she was from the IRS, but 
I didn't believe her for a second. She 
looked a lot like Pam, too. Maybe she was 
her cousin."

   "Do you know exactly what Barry gave 
Pam?" If it was big, I thought, if it was 
really, really, really big, then maybe 
someone had been so angry, jealous, or 
something, that he or she had felt 
justified in killing Barry Dean.

   Heather shrugged and popped a piece of 
ham into her mouth. "Barry showed me some 
of the jewelry. That diamond Rolex I told 
you about, a diamond bracelet, some 
emerald earrings. I asked him if he was 
giving pieces to Ellie, too. He said, 'Of 
course! Only her taste is so 
conservative. And anyway, she's already 
got lots of jewelry.'"

   "What else did Barry give Pam?"

   "He. . .let her have his Audi, I 
think. His car got wrecked, and the Audi 
was in the shop, so he ended up with two 
problem vehicles, plus he didn't drive 
his BMW, usually. He only wanted one new 
car, the Saab, plus the Beemer racing 
car. Oh, and he gave Pam tickets for 
luxury trips, although I'm not sure they 
had a chance to have sexual relations 
anywhere but in that new car of his. 
Barry thought he was being followed on 
the weekends. Looking back, you know, I 
figured it was that investigator - you 
know, the one Ellie McNeely hired - who 
was following Barry."

   "Barry and Pam had sex in the new 
Saab?" Was that before or after he drove 
me out for a latte? Blech! Anyway, I 
wasn't sure Heather was telling the 
truth. She was at that age when imagined 
sexual details made any story more fun. 
Come to think of it, I suppose that was 
any age.

   "I'm not kidding!" she protested. 
"Barry told me about it, along with all 
the juicy details. I should have sued him 
for sexual harassment. 'Ever done it in a 
car, Heather?' he used to ask me, after 
lunch. He was laughing. His clothes were 
all rumpled; he'd gone out with the 
emerald earrings and come back empty-
handed, so I just knew he and Pam had 
done it. He said, 'The car is just 
thebest place. You've got leather smells 
and risk, and then every time you drive 
it, you can think back to what you did in 
it a few hours ago.' I mean, is that 
sexual harassment or what?" She 
punctuated her question by taking another 
bite of pizza.

   So much for Rufus Investigations being 
able to tell Ellie definitively what was 
going on. Whatever had been going on 
between Pam and Barry, it had not been a 
"mental affair," it had been the genuine 
article. No wonder he'd missed all those 
dates with Ellie. I felt a pang of 
sympathy for my old church friend. "Did 
Barry give Pam anything else?"

   Heather folded up the pizza box and 
pushed it into her trash can. "Double 
discount coupons at all the stores, part 
of a promotion campaign to get mall 
workers to shop at the mall. He also gave 
her at least one mink jacket that I know 
of. I haven't the faintest clue how he 
got that. Oh, and he sent her lots of 
flowers. Denver Floral wanted to lease 
here really bad." She arched an eyebrow. 
"Mrs. McNeely probably got really upset 
when she found out about what he was 
doing for Pam, huh? What he was doing to 
Pam. I mean, that he was doing Pam."

-18-
   I thanked Heather and left. Two 
minutes later, I locked myself into a 
bathroom stall and opened the envelope. I 
wasn’t tampering with evidence, I 
reasoned, because Barry had left this for 
me. Besides, Barry had always been 
interested in what dishes I'd be serving. 
Maybe it was just menus.

   It was not menus. The manila envelope 
contained two newspaper clippings, a 
business-envelope-size piece of opened 
mail, and three cardboard boxes from the 
same high-end line of women's cosmetics.

   First I studied the slightly tattered 
envelope. My name was scrawled above a 
typed address:

Lucas Holden
General Delivery
Prescott, Arizona 86301-9999

   The envelope also bore a post-office-
stamped pointy finger. I'd always thought 
those inked pointed forefingers looked 
vaguely accusatory. The reason given for 
the return, Addressee Unknown/Return to 
Sender; included a penned date-of-
rejection, from a month before. The 
return address was the Westside Mall 
office. Inside I found Lucas Holden's 
paycheck, five thousand and change, plus 
a handwritten note:

Lucas, here’s your last check. I sent it 
to the place you said you were going. 
Please come back. I know we can work 
things out.
B. Dean

   I put the letter on top of the toilet 
paper dispenser. So, I figured, that was 
at least one thing Barry had wanted me to 
figure out: what had happened to Lucas. 
Maybe Barry hadn't been sure; maybe he 
thought Lucas was on the road, or just 
plain sulking. But I had found out what 
had happened to Lucas, hadn't I? The ex-
construction worker had died in a motel. 
Being extra cautious, though, why would 
Barry not have called the cops and 
reported Lucas as a missing person?

   I knew the answer as soon as my mind 
posed the question. Barry's own words - 
Nothing clears a mall like a security 
threat - would surely have applied to a 
construction manager who'd quit in a huff 
and then turned up missing. So Barry 
wanted me, the amateur sleuth, to locate 
Lucas, because he couldn't afford any bad 
publicity. No doubt, the charming Mr. 
Dean couldn't have imagined the way I 
would find Lucas, any more than he would 
imagine the way I would stumble over his 
own corpse.

   Unfortunately, the other items in the 
manila envelope were much more baffling. 
First was a clipped editorial from the 
February twenty-sixth issue of the 
Mountain Journal. The title, Does Furman 
County Really Need Forty More Stores?, 
was hysterically answered in the first 
paragraph: No way. But if Barry had been 
truly interested in my keeping this 
editorial, why had he clipped it off mid-
point? The page's other side was a 
pastiche of ads, and included an '81 
Mercedes At a Great Price, a lot out by 
the Elk Preserve where the owner would 
Build to Suit, a sale on delivered 
topsoil from We Got Dirt, and a heart-
felt ad for homemade dog biscuits from 
Caring for Canines, which implied that if 
you really loved your pet, you wouldn't 
feed him those nasty treats from the 
grocery store.

   Frowning, I reread the editorial that 
was missing part of its text. It was the 
standard stuff about the mall addition 
ruining the environment, encouraging big 
corporations to usurp state jobs, 
funneling profits out of state, and, 
horrors, contributing to the mindless 
growth of materialism! Maybe it was to 
avoid this kind of rap that Westside had 
offered their mall for shopaholics' 
meetings. But why would Barry want me to 
have a slice of Mountain Journal polemic?

   The second clipping was another 
cropped article, this one entitled Teen 
Held in Shopliftings. Of course I knew 
all about Teddy Fury, so I skimmed it. 
But I still puzzled over this clipping, 
because again Barry had trimmed a portion 
of the text, this time vertically. Had he 
had eye problems? The back of this sheet 
held more ads similar to the others. I 
sighed. The more evidence I collected 
regarding Barry's murder, the more 
bewildering things became.

   The last three items, the fancy 
cosmetics boxes, were indeed all makeup. 
First I opened the slender rectangular 
box and pulled out a pale green, 
marbleized plastic compact, a cream 
foundation designated as Honeycream. I 
opened it; the compact looked as if it 
had been slightly used. Yuck. The next 
box held new red lipstick; the third was 
a roll-up cream blush. I checked all 
three for secret compartments, tiny 
written messages, you name it. There was 
nothing. No question about it - this made 
a lot of sense, as in none. I went back 
to the compact mirror; where my exhausted 
face squinted back. Barry wasn't the only 
one who had thought I needed a new look.

   I stuffed all the items back in the 
envelope, which I slid deep into my tote. 
Tom would have some ideas, I reasoned. He 
might even know what a dogfile was.

   I was confused. I was tired. So, I was 
not in the best of moods when I plodded 
into the luxurious lingerie department of 
Prince & Grogan. Pam was there, holding 
up a lacy teddy, and shaking it from side 
to side, while a potential customer, a 
tall, distinguished-looking gentleman 
with silver hair, gaped. I edged over and 
heard her croon, "Incredibly slinky and 
soft against the skin," and "Oh, you'll 
thank me! And so will she!" and "This 
one's our top seller. The highest 
quality, of course. You have to spend 
money to get the best, but you know 
that."

   I eased over to a table of reduced 
flannel pajamas and surreptitiously 
watched Pam go through her routine. She 
was good. "Don't you want something for 
that special weekend?" "Oh, she deserves 
it! You deserve it!" "We can't keep these 
in stock!" Pam was like a drug dealer for 
the heroin of shopping. Unlikely she'd 
ever be a guest speaker at Shopaholics 
Anonymous.

   As Silver Hair smiled and piled items 
up by the cash register - black lace 
teddy, pink transparent nightgown, two-
piece (very small pieces) nightwear, red 
satin bustier, feathery mules, push-up 
bra - he seemed to take on a glow. He 
told Pam jokes. Her little laugh tinkled. 
He tilted his silver head close to hers.

   Several times, Pam announced, "Then 
there's one more thing you must buy! She 
is soooo lucky to have you."

   Silver Hair beamed some more. This man 
was in a shopping zone. Since I'd first 
spotted him, he looked taller, more 
powerful, even happier. Which I suppose 
was the whole point. . . while it lasted.

   When he finally whipped out his credit 
card, I held my breath. Pam's demure 
voice said eight hundred and something 
dollars. Where was that security guard 
with the smelling salts? The silver-
haired man beamed and said that would be 
fine.

   "Oh, it's you," Pam said flatly when I 
appeared at the counter after Silver Hair 
had swept away triumphantly with his 
purchases.

   "You promised you'd talk to me," I 
reminded her firmly.

   "Yeah, yeah." She glanced around her 
department, probably to see if there was 
anyone more important than Goldy the 
caterer, which: meant anyone who was 
willing to splurge on lingerie. "OK, make 
it fast," she said impatiently. "Thursday 
is a big noontime shopping period for us, 
because businessmen usually have lunch 
with their mistresses on Fridays. Did you 
know that that's why Fridays are the 
worst day to get a table at a romantic 
restaurant? The guys just can't stand the 
prospect of spending the weekend with 
their wives, and they want to reassure 
their girlfriends that they really care. 
So they buy them a sexy present for that 
special pre-weekend lunch."

   "And then have sex in the car 
afterward? Sort of like dessert?"

   Her glare was withering. I smiled 
innocently. "Sorry. You just hear all 
kinds of stuff in the catering business. 
I serve Friday lunches, you know. I'm 
always wondering what the big rush is to 
get out."

   "Maybe it's your food." She grinned, 
sending the blond ponytails trembling.

   I ignored that. "Pam, I just want to 
talk to you for a few minutes. Can't I 
take you to lunch?"

   "I told you. I can't go to lunch 
because it's our busy time."

   "I'll buy something." I gestured at 
the silken heaps around us.

   "Yeah, right. I saw you pawing through 
the sale flannels."

   "Sell me a bathrobe, then."

   Her face brightened. "Lace or sheer?"

   "Er, terry cloth."

   "I knew it!" she said, her voice 
scathing.

   She wiggled over to a rack of sherbet-
colored terry robes that I thought looked 
quite cozy. Then she lifted an assessing 
eyebrow at my short, pudgy self, moved 
away from the small-size robes, and 
pulled out three medium-size ones. I put 
on the first, a pale green with satin 
edging, and assessed myself in a mirrored 
column. I looked like a half-eaten lime 
Popsicle.

   "Pam, a friend of mine has been 
accused of killing Barry Dean. I don't 
think he did it. You seemed to be Barry's 
friend - do you think he had any enemies 
the cops aren't looking at?"

   Scanning her department unsuccessfully 
for more sugar daddies, she rolled her 
eyes. "I wish I knew who those enemies 
were. I'd kill 'em myself."

   I unwrapped myself from the green robe 
and put on the blueberry-colored one. 
"Ellie McNeely is my friend. I've heard a 
lot of stuff lately about how jealous she 
was of you."

   Pam sniffed and scowled at the blue 
robe. "You look like you're wearing a 
sleeping bag." When I reached for a 
lemon-colored robe, she said, "I don't 
know what Ellie's problem was. Barry 
preferred me.

    Maybe he would have married Ellie, 
but so what? I didn't want to marry 
Barry. My sister's married, and she's 
miserable. I just wanted to . . .you know 
. . . do stuff with him."

   Like have sex in the car; I thought, 
but did not say. I did want to hear about 
Pam's sister, but I also needed to dig a 
bit more on the topic of Ellie. "So," I 
asked noncommittally, "did you read in 
the paper about Barry's steamy love 
life?"

   Pam's eyes lit up. "You bet I did! 
That article even brought me business. 
See the sexy other woman, that kind of 
thing." She shook her head dismissively. 
"Ellie was a bitch, and she only got 
worse. She was so mad at Barry, it was 
scary. What's that famous quote? 'Hell 
hath no fury like a woman scorned. . . .' 
"

   "Did you ever see her argue with 
Barry?"

   "Are you going to buy a robe or not?"

   "The pink, I think." I pointed to one 
I hadn't even tried on. Pam assumed a 
disgusted expression, tugged it off its 
hanger, and quickstepped to the counter.

   "No, I never saw or heard Ellie argue 
with Barry," she told me as she scanned 
the robe's tag. "I heard plenty about how 
they didn't get along, but it was all 
gossip."

   "Oh, speaking of gossip," I said, as I 
handed over a wad of bills, "I heard some 
about your sister Page." I lowered my 
voice. "Something about how jealous she 
was of stuff Barry gave you? How she 
inventoried each of his gifts to you, 
then bought things just like them for 
herself, only in a bigger and more costly 
version? I heard she couldn't keep up, 
and that she really hated Barry, as a 
result."

   How about that - I had undone Pam 
Disharoon. She stood stockstill, her 
cheeks vermilion, her eyes ablaze, her 
blond ponytails quivering. If a dozen 
sugar daddies had flooded into the 
lingerie department at that moment, I 
don't think she would have seen them.

   She shrilled, "She inventoried what 
Barry gave me?" She cleared her throat 
and handed me the receipt and the bagged 
bathrobe. "Just leave me alone now, OK?"

   I nodded to her and grasped the bag. 
Pam might have been convinced that Ellie 
was furious with Barry, but in her heart, 
I was pretty sure Pam now realized 
someone else had hated Barry even more. 
Someone who was family. And she couldn't 
face it.

   Back in the van, I turned on the 
engine and let it idle while I reviewed 
what I'd learned in the mall. Barry had 
been a seductive, gift-giving two-timer. 
OK, I'd already pretty much figured that 
one out. Hearing more details hadn't 
contributed much. I was still very 
skeptical about the Ellie-shoving-Barry-
into-a-ditch scenario, and I couldn't 
believe that two sisters would go to war, 
take no prisoners, and kill a mall 
manager, over the eviction of a husband 
and stuff given to the other sister.

   Next: Barry had, in his weird way, 
sought my help in finding his missing 
construction manager. In addition, Barry 
had left me, in the cryptically named 
"dog file," a clumsily clipped article 
about Teddy Fury's thievery. Three days 
after Barry had been murdered, Teddy Fury 
was still AWOL. Barry wanted me to have 
the editorial decrying the mall's 
contribution to materialism. In the 
antimaterialism department, I doubted 
Barry's death had been staged by a group 
of rehabbed shopaholics.

   The van's heat had not yet kicked in. 
I shivered from cold, from frustration, 
from hunger - the sugar high of pastries 
is woefully short-lived - and from the 
fact that my vow of abstention had 
utterly collapsed. I hadn't had any 
caffeine for several hours! Agh!

   I squeezed back sudden hot tears. Try 
as I might, I couldn't see how any of my 
recently acquired information was going 
to help Julian.

   Scolding myself aloud, I dabbed my 
eyes and applied some makeup - not from 
Barry's compact - to my nose and cheeks. 
There was at least one of my problems 
that I could solve right away. I put the 
van into Drive and eased out of the mall 
parking lot. The Westside Buzz, the 
espresso place that Barry had taken me 
to, was only a few blocks away.

   As I was pulling out of the mall 
parking lot, a brittle flapping sound 
caught my attention. I made a quick turn 
back into a parking space; the sound 
ceased. I checked the backseat and found 
nothing. There were no loose papers, no 
open window. . . Wait a sec. A piece of 
folded blue paper was wedged into the 
right rear window. I powered down the 
window, which made the paper fall out. 
Sighing, I jumped out, rounded the van, 
and picked up the fallen sheet.

   On one side of the turquoise-colored 
paper was a printed advertisement 
extolling the virtues of having your oil 
changed at Westside Lube - While U Shop! 
Virtually all the vehicles in the lot, I 
now noticed, had blue sheets stuck under 
their wipers. Then why hadn't the ad-
placer put mine under one of my wipers? 
The answer lay on the back side of the 
sheet.

   Someone using a black felt-tip pen had 
scrawled an indecipherable message in 
what looked like Spanish. Whoever had 
written it had been in a hurry, that was 
certain, as the tip of the pen had 
dragged from word to word. I raced back 
into the driver side of the car, locked 
the doors, and stared at the sheet. Of 
course, I realized glumly, I should be 
worried about fingerprints and all that. 
But someone had left me a note. And 
Julian was being arraigned the next day.

   I took a pen and an index card out of 
my purse and tried to copy the note. It 
was a question, actually. It only took a 
few moments of staring at and copying 
letters before I was pretty sure I had 
the right words in front of me.

   Porque tuvo dolores de cabeza?

   I plugged in my not-brilliantly-
remembered Spanish vocabulary, and 
eventually honed in on the question as a 
whole - not that it made any more sense 
than when I'd received the anonymous 
phone call.

   Why did he have headaches?

   Oh, man, I was getting tired of this. 
Why don't you just tell me? my mind 
yelled back. He was pushed and fell into 
a ditch. Aside from that, you're going to 
have to fill me in.

   My own head was beginning to ache. I 
needed caffeine now more than ever, so I 
gunned the van in reverse. The brakes 
squealed and sent up a cloud of dust as I 
raced to The Westside Buzz.

   On the way over, I left a message for 
Tom, telling him of all the developments 
and asking again about the women's alibis 
and how Arch was doing in the gift 
department. I also called Marla again. 
She was not at home. Into her machine, I 
asked what time she had driven away from 
Westside on Monday night. Specifically, I 
went on, for what part of that crucial 
half-hour, from eight-thirty to nine 
P.M., had Page and Ellie been with her? 
Did she have any idea whether either or 
both of them had actually left the mall 
when they said they were leaving? The 
digital clock on the van dashboard said 
it was just past three o'clock. Good old 
Marla was probably down visiting Julian.

   There was no line at The Westside 
Buzz. Usually by three in the afternoon, 
folks are trying to layoff caffeine. In 
my present state, this was definitely out 
of the question. I ordered an extra-hot 
four-shot latte made with - decadence! - 
half-and-half, and two cinnamon cookies. 
I took a sip of the rich, creamy drink, 
decided the barista deserved a two-dollar 
tip for her exquisite creation, and 
slotted the cup into the van's plastic 
cup holder.

   It was when I was driving away that an 
insight hit with such force that I 
slammed down on the brake. Latte slopped 
out on the mat. I stared at the creamy 
liquid and told myself I was insane.

   But I didn't think I was.

   I may not have completely answered the 
question of why Barry had crippling 
headaches. I certainly did not understand 
the meaning of the cosmetics items Barry 
had left for me. But I had deduced 
something.

   I'd just figured out why Barry Dean 
had left me his dog.

   I had to get back into Barry's house. 
Tom had said the department had pulled 
their detail off the place. Would Darlene 
be home next door? Would she give me a 
key?

   I hit the accelerator again and wove 
through traffic. There’s something else, 
I promised myself. I know it. If I could 
find whatever it was before the next 
morning, Julian could be freed. I felt 
giddy. He'd be out for Arch's birthday! 
This thought, combined with greedy chugs 
of latte, made me speed up even more.

   Thirty-five minutes later, I pulled up 
behind Darlene Petrucchio's old pink 
Cadillac, one of the consignment items 
she'd never been able to sell and so had 
bought herself. Covered with five inches 
of crusty snow, the Caddy looked forlorn.

   "OK, here's the deal," Darlene said, 
once I'd reassured her I wasn't returning 
Barry's basset hound. She invited me into 
her kitchen, where I declined a beer. 
This day, she was clad in a crimson 
cashmere sweater sewn with bugle beads 
and a matching pleated skirt - an outfit 
dating from circa nineteen-fifty-six. 
"Barry always relied on me when he went 
on trips," Darlene went on. "I told the 
cops 'bout startin' his cars once a week, 
waterin' his plants, walkin' an' feedin' 
that dog. While the lawyers do the will, 
the cops axed me to watch over Barry's 
stuff. They said because he has no next 
of kin, I've got, y'know, a proprietary 
interest. Doesn't mean I get anything," 
she added as she lit a cigarette. "It 
just means the cops can't take care of 
the stuff, and Barry trusted me with it 
when he was alive, so why not now?"

   "I understand," I said, then launched 
into a spiel I'd rehearsed mentally all 
the way up the mountain. "It's just that 
I seem to have left a computer disk full 
of menus over in his house. I simply have 
to have it. Barry loved menus, and he 
asked if he could borrow a bunch of mine. 
But now my computer's crashed, and all I 
have is that disk, dammit."

   Darlene hesitated, and my heart sank. 
She pulled noisily on her cig. "You sure 
you don't wanna beer? 'S almost five." I 
shook my head ruefully. She took a long 
sip of hers, then, to my delight, snagged 
a key ring from a drawer. "I don't mind 
if you look in his house. Jes' don' take 
any thin'. The cops said they'd finished 
their processing. Finished their 
processing? What were they doin', smokin' 
hams in the livin' room?"

   A moment later I was ducking long 
icicles hanging from the Swiss-style 
gingerbread on Barry's front porch. 
Behind me, the street was almost 
completely hushed, with only a slight 
breeze whisking the freshly fallen snow. 
I unlocked the front door, which featured 
a massive brass door knocker in the shape 
of a basset hound's head.

   Get in and get out, I ordered myself. 
You still have a birthday cake to make. 
Problem was, I wasn't quite sure what I 
was looking for. Which was the way with 
scavenger hunts, wasn't it? Especially 
when the person who'd set the hunt up was 
dead.

   Contrary to what I'd told Darlene, I'd 
never been in Barry's house. Once inside, 
I put the key ring in my pocket and 
leaned against the door, taken aback.

   A decorating magazine would have 
entitled the living room in which I now 
stood Homage to the Basset Hound. The 
color scheme was entirely devoted to 
gold, white, and black. Gold walls were 
lightened with white trim and chair rail 
molding, in front of which Barry had 
placed a black lacquered liquor cabinet 
and long buffet. Black-, white-, and 
gold-upholstered sofas and chairs were 
grouped between black lacquered tables 
and around black braided oval rugs. Wide, 
narrow, rectangular, and round 
needlepoint pillows graced the couches 
and chairs. Every one of them pictured a 
basset hound.

   As I looked for the kitchen, I noticed 
a faint but pleasant smell of dog still 
hanging in the air. The scent made me 
unaccountably sad. When I finally found 
the kitchen, it was a small, plain oak-
and-tile affair that didn't look as if it 
had been used much.

   "Latte," I said aloud. "So, Barry, 
where'd you put your coffee stuff" I 
began opening cupboards.

   Because that was what it had to be, 
I'd suddenly realized at the espresso 
place. After the attempted-murder-by-
truck, Barry had realized he was in 
terrible danger. So that was why he'd 
raced back to his office - to call his 
neighbor and finish setting up a trail of 
clues, a scavenger hunt of crime, in case 
he didn't make it.

   Why would he do that? my mind 
demanded. Why not go directly to the 
cops? Or at least to the mall owners? But 
I thought I knew the answer to that one, 
too. Barry had bent the rules for himself 
and his own appetites, the likes of which 
I'd seen with the sexy, gift-greedy Pam 
Disharoon. Any kind of official 
investigation would have unearthed the 

fact that Barry had obtained goodies from 
vendors, reps, and who knew who else. If 
he made it home, and the truck driver was 
arrested, he'd be OK. If not, he'd left a 
scavenger hunt for me, his old coffee 
pal, to figure out what was what. Maybe 
he'd been planning to leave the state, or 
even the country.

   Anyway, he'd called Darlene. He said 
if he didn't show up after work, she was 
to give his dog to me. He'd told Darlene 
how to spell the dog's "new" name, and 
instructed her to tape the coffee moniker 
onto the canine food dishes. In her world 
of beer, cigarettes, and old Caddies, 
Darlene did not know from espresso 
drinks: She'd simply thought Barry had 
misspelled Late.

   But the word Latte had meaning for 
yours truly. Correction: It had meaning 
for us, Barry and me. But what exactly 
was that meaning? We'd drunk the dark 
stuff together in college; we'd had some 
together in the last month. And somewhere 
in that common experience, I was 
absolutely convinced, he'd pounced on a 
detail that he now wanted me to ferret 
out.

   I located a pair of scissors and a 
white plate, which I put on the counter 
before retrieving a fresh trash sack from 
under the sink. I opened the sack, set it 
aside, and pulled out every bag of coffee 
beans I could find, from the cupboards, 
two canisters, and the freezer. These I 
methodically cut open and dumped onto the 
plate. I was looking for anything 
remarkable, anything out of place, and 
most importantly, anything that would 
somehow clear Julian. After sorting 
through the beans, I tossed each examined 
lot into the trash. Eight bags of coffee 
later, I gave up.

   His computer, I thought. Maybe he had 
a special "Latte" or even another "dog" 
file with information. I pushed open the 
door to Barry's study, which felt much 
colder than the rest of the house. I 
booted his PC, but wasn't blessed with 
any luck in that department, either. Lots 
of files on 1st Quarter Profit 
Projections, Advertising Budget 
Breakdown, Lease Schedules, and the like, 
but no dog or latte file.

   "Something to put the latte into!" I 
cried, and zipped back to the kitchen. 
Reopening cupboards, I laid eyes on too-
high shelves of cups, saucers, and mugs. 
I dragged over a chair, climbed up, and 
took down one after another - the man 
must have owned fifty mugs and cups - and 
examined each one, inside and out. On 
about mug number forty, I began to feel 
disheartened. But when I came to the last 
row of five, my heart leaped. The logo on 
the orange mug said Thanks a latte. The 
cup clanked when I picked it up, and I 
thanked God with all my heart.

   Inside the mug was. . . a key? A Saab 
key? I had a key to Barry's Saab on the 
ring Darlene had given me. I scrambled 
down from the chair, pulled the key ring 
out of my pocket, and held both car keys 
up to the light. They were identical.

   "This isn't making sense, Barry!" I 
protested aloud. Startled by my own 
voice, I slammed through the door out 
into the cold, and headed grimly toward 
his garage.

-19-
   Behind the garage, Barry's pontoon 
boat was parked at a slight tilt. It was 
covered with a canvas sheet now frosted 
with snow, and spoke of a summer that 
felt more than three months away. I 
turned to the garage door. It boasted a 
hefty new padlock.

   The padlock must be an addition from 
Darlene, I figured. After the cops had 
processed Barry's Saab, previously parked 
in the Westside Mall lot, they would have 
delivered the Saab to Darlene, as the one 
with the so-called proprietary interest. 
But I was willing to bet that Darlene's 
own garage was filled to the brim with 
consignment stuff. I could imagine her 
insisting the Saab go back into Barry's 
garage, with her promise that that was 
where it would stay.

   As my chilled fingers fumbled for the 
padlock's keyhole, I wished desperately 
for my gloves. I thanked all the heavenly 
angels when the smallest key on the ring 
Darlene had given me slid into the 
padlock and turned. The lock gave; I 
removed it and pushed through the wooden 
door.

   Barry's silvery-green Saab, glazed 
with ice like the padlock, was parked 
next to a black M-6, his BMW racing car. 
My footsteps scrunched over garage-floor 
grit as I headed to the Saab. I unlocked 
the driver-side door - Barry had probably 
either lost the remote opener, or hidden 
it in the bottom of a uranium mine - and 
pulled the lever to open the trunk. You 
had to start somewhere, I thought grimly.

   Carpeted with black fuzzy stuff, the 
trunk was a disappointment. It held 
nothing but a pristine spare tire in its 
well. I'd heard once of people hiding 
money in the well, though, so I hefted 
out the tire, which was as cold and heavy 
as a frigid boulder. For all my effort, 
the wheel well was empty.

   I slammed the trunk shut and slid into 
the Saab's driver's seat. I should have 
guessed the upholstery would be cold, but 
the icy, hardened leather still sent a 
chill down my spine. My breath clouded 
the inside of the car as I poked around, 
looking in every crevice. I was careful, 
though. After hearing Heather's story of 
her boss's lunchtime activities, I didn't 
want to examine the seats themselves too 
closely.

   At least the cops had not left a mess. 
The car interior was spotless. On the 
backseat floor, a thick rumpled towel 
indicated Barry had probably taken Latte 
on rides the way he had taken his beloved 
Honey years ago. Other than that, there 
were no newspapers, no clothes, no 
sporting equipment, no clutter of any 
kind. I groped gingerly under the seats 
and again came up empty.

   The glove compartment yielded the 
proof of insurance and manual, period. I 
slammed it shut, frustrated. Then, 
remembering a trick I'd seen in a movie, 
I turned the Saab key one click in the 
ignition, so as to run the accessories. 
Then I deftly punched the Eject button on 
both the CD and cassette players. They 
were empty.

   "Dammit!" I yelled, creating another 
big cloud of verbal steam. Barry had been 
so proud of this car. The perforated 
leather seats were ventilated with fans, 
the turbo kicked in with a blast of 
power, and he had shown me all its zippy 
bells and whistles when he'd taken me out 
for . . .

   Coffee. I smiled. Bells and whistles, 
indeed. Those inventive Swedes had 
designed a particularly cool gizmo for 
holding your coffee. Barry himself had 
pressed the button that brought down a 
vertical plastic cylinder that 
automatically turned ninety degrees to 
hold my . . .latte.

   Breathing another prayer, I pushed the 
button. It didn't move. I cursed silently 
and pressed it again. The vertical panel 
squeaked out and opened sideways. Inside 
the empty circle where my latte had once 
sat was a key, stuck under plastic tape.

   With my frigid fingers barely able to 
move, I scraped and ripped at the tape 
until I'd pulled that sucker of a key out 
of the cup holder. As I stomped back to 
the house, key ring and new key in hand, 
I tried to stay calm.

   You think this is fun, Barry? my mind 
growled. Did you ever spend time in jail? 
Have any of your friends been stuck 
behind bars? Next time, leave typed 
instructions with your lawyer: It'll be 
easier on both of us.

   I ransacked his office, looking for a 
file cabinet that needed a key. Nothing. 
Every drawer was unlocked.

   Dog File, Barry had written beside my 
name on the manila envelope. Maybe if I 
again spread out everything that was in 
that packet, I'd see a common element 
that would lead me to the dog file.

   I jammed all the keys into my pocket, 
slammed out the front door, and traipsed 
over the ice to my van. It was getting 
late. I was tired, frustrated, and upset. 
But it was unlikely Darlene, much less 
the cops, would ever let me into Barry's 
house again to look for an imaginary 
disk. Not only that, but I was running 
out of time. At my van, I pulled out the 
manila envelope, then crunched through 
the packed ice back to Barry's chalet.

   Packet in hand, I settled onto the 
scratchy, black braided rug in the living 
room. At eye level, I was surrounded by 
the mournful faces of needlepointed, 
painted, and lacquered basset hounds.

   "Yeah, yeah," I muttered to them. "How 
come your master had to make everything 
so difficult?"

   On the floor, I laid everything out: 
the compact, lipstick, and blush; the 
editorial decrying the mall addition; the 
article on Teddy; the paycheck to Lucas 
Holden that had been returned by the post 
office. Next to them, I placed the manila 
envelope itself, with its scrawled Goldy 
and Dog File notations written in 
different colored inks, probably penned 
at different times. My guess was that the 
Goldy reminder had come later, once Barry 
decided after the truck incident to send 
me on a wild-goose chase, in case he took 
a powder.

   I surveyed the stuff. Some people 
enjoy creating a tangle for others, so 
that only the most determined folks will 
try to figure out the solution. Clearly, 
Barry was that kind of person. On the day 
he died, he'd bequeathed his newly named 
basset hound to me; he'd also assembled 
some articles and stuffed them in a 
manila envelope labeled with my name and 
a reference to an enigmatic dog file. 
Less than an hour before he'd been 
murdered, he'd written me a note saying 
he had a "tip" for me. Since Barry had 
mentioned both a check and a tip in his 
note, I had to assume that that "tip" was 
verbal in nature, and would have 
explained everything.

   "But the risk, Barry," I said aloud, 
thinking hard, "is that when you leave 
too many clues, no one, not even a 
caterer-turned-sleuth-with-a-friend-in-
jail, no one will be able to figure out 
what the hell you were trying to say."

   All around the room, the basset hounds 
looked sadder than ever. I ignored their 
canine countenances and picked up each 
item from the floor, examined it again, 
then set it down.

   Nothing.

   My back ached. I eased myself up to a 
chair, propped my feet up on an ottoman, 
and again surveyed the pattern of items. 
Still, no ideas popped. If I were an old-
fashioned deductive English detective, I 
reflected, I'd have a nice glass of 
sherry and ponder. I surveyed the living 
room. Along one wall, the black lacquered 
cabinet - complete with a family of 
basset hounds painted on the front - held 
a silver tray of crystal sherry glasses 
and, bless me, a bottle of Dry Sack.

   I heaved myself up, crossed the room, 
uncorked the opened bottle, and poured 
myself a very small dose. I recorked the 
bottle and downed a lovely sip. Barry the 
showman undoubtedly would have preferred 
offering me a rare wine, and I probably 
should have checked to see if he had any, 
but I wasn't choosy, I thought, as I took 
another sip. Besides, I thought as I 
peered downward, the liquor cabinet was . 
. .oh, God.

   Locked.

   I was so startled I turned too fast 
and sent the sherry bottle flying. I 
grabbed for it and missed. The bottle 
didn't break, thank goodness, but rolled 
across the living room rug. In trying to 
catch the bottle, though, I did drop my 
glass, which crashed and shattered. 
Exhaling, I stepped over the splinters of 
glass and the puddle of sherry, tiptoed 
to Barry's keys, and nabbed the one I'd 
extracted from the Saab cup holder. With 
my heart thundering, I inserted it into 
the cabinet keyhole.

   The heavy door opened easily. Inside 
were not the bottles of expensive wine I 
had expected, but a stack of files about 
three inches high. I grabbed them. Why 
had the cops not taken the cabinet? I 
wondered. I could hear what they would 
say. Because it was extremely heavy, 
because it was in the living room, 
because it was a liquor cabinet, because 
it was locked. As the ace investigator in 
the department, Tom would have taken it, 
of course, and broken into it. But he'd 
been off the case from the beginning.

   I danced back across the room and 
opened up the files. Inside the first 
file was a bulkily folded blueprint. I 
spread it out, stared at it, and finally 
figured out that the Existing Structure 
was Westside Mall. Numbers dotted the 
plan for the addition and lot, but what 
did that tell me? Not a thing. Someone - 
Barry? - had penned x's in three 
different spots. Barry had been trained 
as an architect; he'd known what the 
diagram meant. For me, it might just as 
well have been in Swahili.

   Next in the pile was a banded packet 
of Polaroids and folded sketches. I laid 
the sketches - there were three of them - 
out in front of me like cards. The 
Polaroids were not of Pam or Ellie, but 
of concrete and dirt photographed from 
what appeared to be different angles. At 
the bottom of each photo were penned 
dates, all in February. The sketches were 
in Barry's hand, and resembled a cross-
section of an archeological dig. Where 
footings should be, he'd written, beside 
a set of lines. Where they are, he'd 
written to the left of another diagram, 
and then added: CHECK PHOTOS!

   Okay. I took a thoughtful breath and 
plowed on. Next was a sheet: Siblings & 
Incomes, with two names typed and 
annotated.

   . 1. Lawrence. Criminal defense 
attorney; partner in firm. Annual income: 
5 million ++++.
   2. Bachman. Orthopedic surgeon; 
operates on world-class athletes. Annual 
income: 3 million ++++.

   At the bottom was another Barry - 
scribbled note. Amount he borrowed to 
build custom home: $520,000. Approximate 
profit from sale of top-soil from this 
site: $1,600,000.

   And last, there were two more 
newspaper clippings. One was a piece on a 
new playground in Aspen Meadow, the other 
covered the rise in traffic stops for 
reckless driving. Mystified, I turned 
them over. Both of them, like the flipped 
clippings on the floor, included ads for 
topsoil from We Got Dirt.

   OK, so Barry had been on to something. 
But what? I went back to the Siblings & 
Income sheet. Did I know either Lawrence 
or Bachman? With a sinking feeling, I 
pulled out one of the cards that my - and 
now Julian's - lawyer had handed me. 
Underneath Hulsey's name was the listing 
of the firm's partners.

   "Oh, Lord," I breathed. I scurried 
over to a lacquered end table that held a 
phone and directory. Flipping through the 
Aspen Meadow section, I looked for the 
name and address I'd seen right near the 
Stockhams' gorgeous place. Brother 
Bachman, too, had done very well, moving 
into one of the ritziest areas of Aspen 
Meadow. And he'd dated Marla!

   This was just like Pam and Page, I 
thought, as I punched buttons. Like Kim 
and Teddy. One sibling can't stand having 
less than the other. And then he or she 
just can't stop competing for stuff, no 
matter what gets in the way. No matter 
what.

   Tom's number had not connected before 
a large hand closed around my neck. In a 
split second, another hand wrenched the 
phone away, and pulled it so hard the 
cord snapped. The phone went flying. I 
twisted away from the choke hold with all 
the energy I could muster. The second 
hand closed around my throat. I gasped 
for breath and kicked backward 
instinctively with first one, then the 
other foot. Black clouds formed in front 
of my eyes as a distant voice reminded 
me, The abusive husband always tries to 
silence the wife, to make sure she has no 
voice. . . . 

   With a surge of furious energy, I 
simultaneously clamped my own hands onto 
the choker's, turned my head, and bit as 
hard as I could into my attacker's palm. 
The choker screeched with pain as blood 
spurted into my mouth. I yanked myself 
free and dived toward the front door. Two 
fists banged into my back, and I reeled 
onto the couch.

   Above me, Victor Wilson tried to hit 
me again, but I rolled away, scrambled to 
my feet, and screamed bloody murder as I 
raced the other way, toward the back 
door.

   "Hey!" he bellowed, sprinting after 
me. "Get back here!"

   I slammed into the back door and 
fumbled frantically for the doorknob. 
Victor crashed into me, grabbed handfuls 
of my hair, and jerked me so brutally 
that I almost passed out.

   "You aren't going anywhere!" he 
snarled as he flung me down. I staggered 
sideways into the liquor cabinet and 
bounced off it onto the floor, the breath 
utterly knocked out of me.

   "Stay there! And shut up!" Victor 
yelled, as he kicked me viciously in the 
back.

   Again black spots spiraled in front of 
my eyes. I whimpered and panted for 
breath.

   "You're a thief," I gasped. Victor 
placed his booted foot on my thigh. He 
was pressing hard as he looked for 
something. Pain ratcheted into every cell 
of my body. "You followed me here!"

   "Shut up, you nosy bitch! Or I'll 
smack you again!" He was groping, I 
realized dimly, through a filthy sack.

   Not for a knife, I prayed. Please, not 
for another knife.

   "You killed Lucas Holden! And Barry, 
too!" Talking might slow him down, might 
give time for Darlene to figure out that 
the racket she was hearing next door was 
not the noise from some TV show.

   "Shut up!"

   Squirming, I looked around desperately 
for something - anything - to distract 
him. His boot pressed down firmly, 
pinning me to the floor. Where in the 
hell was my cell phone?

   I wheezed, "And . . . and you were 
going to let our friend Julian, or Ellie 
McNeely, take the rap. Ellie never 
crashed her car into Barry's, you did. 
What'd you do, pull her purse with the 
jewelry receipt and car keys out of the 
Dumpster where Teddy threw them? Ellie 
never pushed anyone into a ditch. She 
never killed anyone. What were you going 
to do after you trapped her in the toilet 
tank, kill her and dump her body under 
some cement at your construction site?"

   Victor, still rummaging for something, 
grunted, "Something like that. Now shut 
up before I choke you again!" He pushed 
down harder on my thigh. I winced. There 
was a lot more to say, but I knew now it 
wouldn't help. They teach you in self-
protection classes to talk to criminals 
if they attack you. You're supposed to 
call them by name, you're supposed to 
appeal to their soft side. Crap to that. 
Talking doesn't change the mind of a 
greedy, vicious man.

   Victor finally found what he was 
looking for in the huge bag: a long coil 
of thick rope.

   "What's that for?" I gasped.

   "I'm gonna bury you under the 
foundation for our last store," he said 
matter-of-factly.

   My adrenaline soared and I desperately 
scanned the room. How could I get away 
from him? Applying more pressure to my 
leg, he leaned over me. Double crap.

   "Victor," I screamed, "I know about 
your brothers! I know what you're doing! 
And I brought you cookies, you bastard!"

   This took him back for a millisecond. 
And in that millisecond, I kicked away 
his boot with my free leg, and crab-
scrambled a yard away. With an angry 
roar, he vaulted after me. But by that 
time I had something in my right hand. 
When he pounced around the corner of the 
couch, I hit him square in the face with 
the Dry Sack bottle.

   He squealed and reeled backward, his 
face a bloody mess of glass shards, 
liquor, and torn flesh. While he howled, 
I scooted over to Barry's door and 
snatched up the doorstop with its 
needlepoint picture of a basset hound. 
Under the decoration, thank God, was a 
heavy brick. While Victor screamed, "You 
bitch! You bitch!" I slammed it into his 
stomach with all the strength I 
possessed. He wheeled forward, bellowing 
with pain, spun around, and landed hard 
on top of all the papers Barry had 
meticulously assembled to prove his 
excavator's wrongdoing. Then, because I'd 
learned about this in self-defense and 
because I didn't want to risk Victor 
waking up before I could get the cops 
here, I hit him once more, very, very 
hard. With the brick.

   Where it really hurts.

-20-
   It's called overexcavating," Tom 
informed me, as he broke eggs carefully 
into a bowl late the next morning. "Most 
of the builders in the Denver area are 
honest. But there are some crooks, and 
they love to brag. That's probably how 
Victor Wilson heard about the way to do 
it."

   It was Arch's birthday. Tom had taken 
the day off, he said, so he could take 
care of me and bake Arch s cake. After my 
violent struggle with Victor Wilson, I 
was definitely out of cooking for the 
next couple of days. Tom was happily 
taking over so I could recuperate. And I 
was determined to let myself rest and 
heal. I'd even handed my next client over 
to Liz Fury. Meanwhile, Arch - otherwise 
known as the Birthday Boy, which we of 
course could not call him to his face - 
was ecstatic that Elk Park had another 
in-service. My son was sleeping in.

   "Overexcavating?" I asked Tom, as I 
chased four ibuprofen with a double 
espresso. Every part of my body ached. I 
was determined to think about, to talk 
about, anything except how I was feeling.

   Tom measured sugar, then dumped it 
into the whirling mixer. "Works like 
this. Guy either is or is not in cahoots 
with the soil and building inspectors. 
Sometimes inspectors are just stupid, 
which is what we had with the Westside 
Mall addition."

   "Oh, great."

   Tom checked the bittersweet chocolate 
he was melting in the top of our double 
boiler. "Remember you told me about that 
lake of drainage water by the back 
entrance?" he asked.

   "You mean, the one that Victor was so 
helpful bringing my boxes across?"

   "The very one," Tom replied with a 
grin. He lifted the pan with its pool of 
melted chocolate off the heat.

   "OK. So there's a lake of drainage 
water by the mall's back door. How is 
that so important?"

   "Drainage problems, which that project 
had in the worst way, often come from 
improper grading. With overexcavation, 
your crook is going to sell over a 
million dollars of extra dirt. The 
grading is never going to fix the 
problem. Lotta rain, lotta snow? That 
water's gotta go somewhere. It can't 
drain back into the earth, because the 
impervious surface of a parking lot won't 
let it. So it just becomes a puddle, a 
pond, or one of the Great Lakes."

   "How much had Victor overexcavated?"

   "'Bout six or eight inches. Over that 
huge expanse of land, you're talking a 
lot of dirt. He sold it all through those 
little We Got Dirt ads, and he made about 
a million and a half. He had his crew 
helping him out, too, for cash."

   "So. . . how do we reconstruct the 
whole thing?" I puzzled.

   Tom tilted his head and considered. 
"It's complicated. Victor Wilson was not 
only very greedy, he was a very mean, 
very smart guy."

   But he acted nice, my mind 
automatically supplied. The creep.

   Tom went on: "Say Lucas No-toe Holden, 
the former construction manager, 
discovered the drainage problem and 
accused his excavator of overexcavating 
and selling off the dirt. Maybe Lucas 
wanted to alert Barry but Victor 
intercepted him. By the way, you want to 
hear about everybody's favorite cadaver?"

   "Is this going to destroy my 
appetite?"

   "Hope not. We got back the drug 
screen. Holden had been injected with 
cocaine, and that, we think, caused the 
heart attack. Again, it was probably 
Victor, but I doubt we'll ever be able to 
prove that. Our theory is that after 
Victor Wilson intercepted Lucas Holden 
and used the hypodermic on him, Victor 
quickly drove - through the night - to a 
motel where he could wear Lucas's 
sweatshirt and ball cap to check in as 
Lucas. Then Victor set up a scene so that 
it looked as if Lucas died of natural 
causes, and left the body."

   "And the coroner out there didn't test 
for drugs because. . ." Tom stood to make 
me another espresso. Except for bruise 
marks around my neck, I was in pretty 
good shape. I liked being pampered, 
though. In fact, I loved it.

   "Because Lucas Holden was a diabetic 
with heart disease, Goldy," Tom 
explained, as velvety dark coffee 
spiraled into a new English china 
espresso cup. Tom had bought it for me 
and hidden it until an appropriate 
occasion presented itself. He figured 
catching Victor Wilson qualified. "There 
was no obvious drug use," he went on. "So 
they didn't run a screen. That kind of 
case, the medical examiner probably 
wouldn't get involved. Remember, a 
coroner can be a nurse whose husband is a 
rancher, say. Her only job is to 
determine the cause and manner of death. 
And with no foul play, no obvious drug 
use, the corpse in pretty good shape, 
then the coroner thinks, Bingo! 
Donation."

   "But how did Ellie become involved?" I 
wondered aloud, as I gratefully accepted 
the crema-loaded espresso.

   "First you gotta look at what happened 
with Barry and Victor. Again, our theory 
is that Victor typed up a note, 
supposedly from Lucas Holden, saying 'I 
quit! I'm going to Arizona. Send my check 
there.' 'Where in Arizona?' Barry 
probably asked Victor, and Victor said 
'Prescott' because it came into his head. 
While Barry was out at the site, though, 
he saw that something was wrong with the 
footings. They were even with the surface 
level of the dirt, instead of below it. 
Barry had an architecture degree, so - "

   "So he acted on his own," I 
interrupted, "and got the plans from the 
county. And took pictures. And confronted 
Victor?"

   Tom sighed. "We think so. But that's 
not all Barry confronted him about."

   I sipped the coffee and ran my fingers 
along my throbbing neck. "When was all 
this?"

   "We're guessing a month ago. That's 
when Barry first confronted Victor with 
the overexcavation, and the returned 
check from Arizona. Where was Lucas? 
Barry wanted to know. Why hadn't Lucas 
ended up where you said he was going? 
And, what the hell are we going to do 
about this drainage problem you've 
created?"

   "Good Lord."

   "We figure Victor pushed Barry into 
the ditch when they had this 
confrontation. Unknown to Victor at that 
time, two illegal Mexican immigrants who 
worked for him, Jorge and Raoul Sanchez, 
were watching. Jorge and Raoul speak 
great English. And they worked their 
butts off for Victor, who sometimes paid 
them and sometimes didn't. One day, the 
two brothers came early for their money, 
and overheard the whole thing. Barry 
probably asked Victor one question too 
many. Hey, by the way, how come these 
concrete footings are even with the 
topsoil, instead of being eight inches 
lower than the soil.?'

   I sighed and shook my head. "So Jorge 
and Raoul saw Victor push Barry Dean into 
the ditch? And knew why, after that, 
Barry complained about headaches?"

   "Yup. Jorge and Raoul, chewed out, 
unpaid, and maybe just a little scared of 
how violent Victor could become, walked 
off the job. Victor, instead of being 
afraid of Jorge and Raoul ratting him 
out, called them up and said, 'One of you 
needs to come over here and drive this 
truck into Barry Dean or I'm going to 
turn all of you into the INS. Then you 
two and your mother and all your little 
illegal family will be bused straight 
back to Mexico.'"

   "That bastard."

   "Victor made Jorge and Raoul swear the 
person who had pushed Barry into the 
ditch was a woman. Using the same 
blackmail technique, he forced Raoul to 
phone in an anonymous tip that Julian had 
driven the truck that almost killed Barry 
and you. But they both felt guilty, which 
is why they called you anonymously to tip 
you off about the headaches. And left you 
that note in Spanish, too."

   "And I brought the bastard cookies! 
But I still don't understand about the 
cuff links, and Ellie, and all that."

   "After the ditch incident, Victor must 
have been real worried about what Barry 
would do. In particular, he might have 
worried about how much Barry had told his 
very public girlfriend, Ellie. So before 
Barry could do anything, Victor probably 
decided to kill Barry and frame Ellie. He 
followed Ellie around, saw Teddy Fury nab 
her purse. Teddy kept the purse and the 
cash, but tossed the rest of the purse's 
contents - including Ellie's car keys and 
the cuff links receipt - into the 
Dumpster. Victor fished that stuff out 
and laid his plans. First he'd crash 
Ellie's car into Barry's, to establish 
the jealousy. Then he planted the cuff 
links in the dump truck, so it would look 
as if Ellie tried to kill Barry because 
he was having something on the side with 
Pam. But the truck scheme to kill Barry 
failed."

   "And I lost a box of shrimp rolls," I 
commented. "At that point, Victor was 
probably desperate," Tom went on. "He 
stole your Henckels knife, stalked Barry, 
and stabbed him in an area invisible to 
security cameras, behind the P and G shoe 
cabinet. When the clerks approached to do 
the cleanup, he shoved Barry into the 
cabinet. But as he was leaving the store, 
he saw you coming in with Arch's guitar. 
You were asking one clerk after another 
where the shoe department was. He waited, 
watched you discover Barry, and whacked 
you with the guitar."

   "Then when Julian was arrested, that 
worked for him, too," I concluded glumly. 
"He just blackmailed - who was it? Raoul 
the construction worker? - to say Julian 
was driving the truck! That son of a 
bitch! He didn't succeed in getting Jorge 
and Raoul into trouble, did he?"

   "Don't worry," Tom reassured me. 
"Jorge's lawyer got the INS deal he 
wanted, and both Jorge and Raoul are 
cooperating fully in the investigation."

   "Raoul and Jorge," I murmured. "Two 
siblings who really care about each 
other."

   "Oh! And speaking of siblings! Kim 
Fury finally called. Apologized profusely 
for not getting back earlier, but she had 
gone out looking for her brother, whom 
she still seems to be constantly ticked 
off at. But at least she found him. Teddy 
wasn't holed up studying quantum 
mechanics, either, sorry to say, or doing 
volunteer work in the ghetto. But they're 
probably going to close the strip bar 
where he'd been living in the basement."

   "Ah." I frowned at the dregs in my 
demitasse. "What was Teddy doing there?"

   "Busboy. Got free rent and meals, made 
good tips, and he got to see the shows 
for free." He perused his cake recipe and 
began assembling ingredients.

   "All right," I said finally. "Before 
we get into the whole Pam and Page thing, 
tell me why Barry didn't just fire Victor 
when he discovered what he was doing."

   Tom turned to me. "Goldy, you yourself 
gave us the answer to that. First of all, 
as mall manager, Barry didn't have the 
power to fire Victor. Pennybaker 
International would have had to do that. 
And why didn't Barry contact Pennybaker?"

   "Because he was afraid of negative 
publicity," I answered grimly. "Because 
he was afraid all his borderline-legal 
antics with giving the vendors' goods 
away would be discovered. Because if 
Pennybaker swooped in with their analysts 
and managers, Barry would be blamed, 
somehow, for the delay in the mall 
construction. Maybe they'd discover he 
was blackmailing Shane Stockham over the 
rent issue. And . . . maybe they'd even 
get wind of his affair with Pam 
Disharoon. So Barry figured, 'I'll hire 
my old college pal Goldy, the caterer who 
solves crimes. She'll help me to find out 
what happened to Lucas No-toe Holden.' "

   "You did great on this," Tom reassured 
me. "The guys did check out those alibis 
for Ellie and Page, by the way. The women 
did go straight home, Ellie with Mrs. 
Harrington, Page in Shane's car. Shane 
called a former employee of The Gadget 
Guy to drive him back up to the Stockham 
place. He didn't want to risk driving 
with his wife after they'd almost killed 
each other at the party. Oh . . . and our 
guy who checked out Page's alibi also 
asked her about all those suspicious 
shoes. Page never saw Barry in the shoe 
department. She said she bought so much 
footwear because that was the best way to 
get revenge on her stingy old husband."

   I shook my head. Tom folded sifted 
cocoa and sugar into the melted butter 
and chocolate mixture, then folded in 
yolks, then creamy, beaten whites. Even 
as much as my neck now was beginning to 
ache, I had to appreciate his skill. Tom 
regarded me with concern. "You look like 
you're in pain."

   "I've had worse pain, please don't 
worry," I assured him. He scraped the 
bowl's luscious dark contents into a 
springform pan and slipped the pan into 
the oven. Then he came over and murmured, 
"Let me rub where it hurts."

   Tom's warm hands eased along my upper 
back. Meanwhile, because it was not a 
catering day and because Tom had sworn to 
disinfect the kitchen over the weekend, 
the dogs were enjoying an unusual foray 
into the kitchen. Jake the bloodhound and 
Latte the basset hound pressed in next to 
me for pats. Like Tom, they also appeared 
worried about me. Scout the cat, however, 
was still in hiding. And someone else was 
missing, too.

   "You know what's bothering me most," I 
said. "Julian - "

   "OK, look. Hulsey told me to tell you 
that neither of us should go down to the 
jail. It's an embarrassing situation for 
his firm, and they don't want you or me 
around just yet."

   "Bad publicity?"

   "You bet," Tom replied. "Hulsey, 
Jones, Macauley and Wilson is the best-
known criminal defense firm in the state. 
One partner represents a murder case's 
initial suspect, you. Then he works with 
a second suspect, Julian Teller. Later, 
when a much more credible suspect gets 
apprehended and hit in the groin by a 
cop's wife" - I shrugged modestly - "and 
it turns out the guy now hitting the high 
notes is the brother of the Wilson in 
Hulsey, Jones, Macauley and Wilson, 
they've got a damage-control problem on 
their hands. They're worried sick the 
press will be all over them."

   "Yeah, yeah," I muttered. Another 
sibling problem. "Julian will be all 
right," Tom reassured me. "And there's 
something else," he added. "Minor by 
comparison to all this. Shane Stockham 
called. Before he could say why he was 
phoning, I blasted him on his claims 
about the payoffs to Barry on the rent 
issue. I told Stockham if he didn't tell 
me the truth, he'd go straight to jail. 
Scared the guy to death. He admitted 
Barry hadn't demanded anything from him. 
He just made that up so he wouldn't be 
blamed for holding back on his rent. His 
lawyer was already dealing with 
Pennybaker."

   "You must have put the fear of God 
into him."

   "That's my job. Anyway, Shane turned 
all ingratiating after his admission, as 
if he were the best friend a cop could 
ever hope to have. He also said he signed 
up all the investors he wanted. He really 
needs to get some ring back from you, 
though. He'll exchange it for the check 
he owes you." Tom stopped his wonderful 
massage. "A ruby, sapphire, and diamond 
ring? Please, please, Miss G. - tell me 
it's not stolen."

   I laughed, then promised him I would 
call Shane. At that moment, the doorbell 
rang, and the dogs went berserk.

   A moment later, Tom was ushering in 
Ellie McNeely. I tried not to look 
disappointed that it wasn't Julian. Ellie 
was carrying a handsome flower 
arrangement of dark blue iris, daffodils, 
and white stock, set not in a basket, but 
on a base topped with a. . . lacrosse 
helmet?

   "It's for Arch," she said, her tone 
apologetic. "For his birthday. I told the 
florist I needed the most masculine thing 
possible, with a lacrosse theme."

   "They're gorgeous," I said, deeply 
touched.

   "Oh," she added, pulling an envelope 
out of her pocket, "and here's an 
Abercrombie and Fitch gift certificate 
for him, too, just so he won't think I'm 
totally square."

   "This is so unnecessary, Ellie."

   "Goldy," she said earnestly, "I didn't 
really come here because of Arch's 
birthday. I came because I wanted to 
thank you, because I needed to thank 
you." Before I could protest and say, 
It’s nothing, she hurried on: "You found 
out what happened to Barry, and got half 
choked to death in the process, I heard. 
You've been great."

   We invited her into the kitchen, where 
we all had more espresso and kept watch 
over the cake through the oven window. At 
length, Arch, clad in the sweatsuit he'd 
slept in, made one of his silent floating 
appearances.

   "It's the Birthday B - !" I stopped 
instantly when I registered my son's 
threatening countenance. Laboriously, I 
got to my feet and shuffled in his 
direction, hoping for a birthday hug.

   "Mom, don't." Arch drew back and gave 
me a pained look: Can't you ever treat me 
as if I were older than three? "What's 
that?" he asked, frowning at the flowers.

   "They're from Mrs. McNeely," I said. 
"They're for you. For your birthday."

   "Thanks," he mumbled, and nodded in 
Ellie's direction. "Thanks a lot." He 
looked from Tom to me. "So my party's 
going to be now? Is Julian out yet?"

   "Don't know," said Tom. "But breakfast 
definitely won't be the end of today's 
partying."

   "They really are nice flowers," Arch 
said to Ellie, with a sincere smile and 
brief nod.

   "There's a gift certificate, too," 
Ellie said, "for A and R" She pointed to 
the envelope she'd placed on the table.

   At that, Arch brightened a bit more. 
"Well, gee. Thanks!"

   Tom removed the cake from the oven, 
set it on a rack, then rummaged through 
the freezer for the last batch of Julian-
made chocolate-filled croissants. I set 
the table and poured orange juice.

   When we were digging into the flaky 
croissants a few minutes later, Ellie 
said suddenly, "I guess I'll never know 
if Barry meant to get engaged or not. It 
doesn't matter." Her lovely, wet eyes 
regarded me earnestly. "He was two-timing 
me, but he wanted to get married, Goldy. 
He told me so at the jewelry-leasing 
event. He said, All these arrangements 
we're making today are for the temporary 
wearing of stones. But ours will 
symbolize a lifelong promise.'" I knew 
she was looking at me for affirmation. I 
nodded, thinking only that Barry had a 
gift for communication, not necessarily 
one for commitment.

   "Who's ready for another croissant?" 
Tom cried jovially.

   Arch raised his hand. Ellie, still 
preoccupied, burst out with, "If only I 
could have figured out that riddle!"

   Arch cut his eyes at me. I lifted my 
eyebrows and gave him a knowing grin. My 
son had always been an expert at riddles, 
codes, and puzzles, and he knew how much 
I appreciated his talent. Arch then 
glanced at Tom, too, who nodded almost 
imperceptibly. But before Arch said 
anything, he unexpectedly looked back at 
me. His eyes held such tenderness that I 
was undone. Maybe in that split second, 
my son realized, as he hadn't in a while, 
how much my appreciation of him meant 
that I loved him. I swallowed; my eyes 
flooded with tears. And then the moment 
was over.

   My son put down his pastry and said, 
"I know a lot about codes, Mrs. McNeely. 
If it's that kind of thing."

   "It's not a code, it's about sex," 
Ellie explained.

   Arch beamed. Well, he was turning 
fifteen. He said, "Fire away."

   Ellie demurred. "Oh, I've taken up too 
much of your party time. I'm sorry. I'm 
just preoccupied with my own problems."

   "So what's the code?" Arch persisted.

   " 'When we fight, and then we BLANK, 
when you do it alone, you'll find your 
ring.'" Ellie wrinkled her nose. "You 
see, whenever we fought, we. . . made 
love afterward. I sure don't want to know 
what he meant by 'do it alone,' for 
crying out loud."

   Arch shook his head. A huge grin 
creased his face. "I don't think it's 
about sex, Mrs. McNeely. When you fight 
with somebody" - and here he gave me that 
affectionate expression again - "you do 
other things. You . . . apologize. You 
get something for 'em. You . . . make 
up." Ellie let out breath, still 
bewildered. "Look, Mrs. McNeely," Arch 
went on, "Barry meant when you make up, 
get it? Then later you put on makeup, you 
know? Don't you get that?"

   Oh Lord, I thought. I bolted from our 
table as swiftly as a person with a sore 
shoulder and bruised neck can bolt. From 
my tote, I retrieved the manila envelope 
Barry had left for me, that I had 
remembered to bring home from his place.

   When Tom eyed it skeptically, I said, 
"Look, I left all the clues to Victor's 
wrongdoing there in the cabin, OK? This 
is separate. It's not withholding 
evidence." Tom shook his head and rolled 
his eyes, but said nothing. I opened the 
envelope and shook out the lipstick and 
blush, both new.

   And the compact, slightly used. I 
grabbed a clean table knife, put a paper 
towel under the compact, then pried up a 
corner of the makeup. Bits of creamy 
chalklike stuff broke, splintered upward, 
and spilled over the top of the compact. 
I tried again. And again. When I reached 
the edge of an object in the middle of 
the makeup, everyone leaned in. I levered 
out a thin, delicate cylinder.

   And then I held up the ring Barry had 
intended to surprise Ellie with.

   Ellie burst into tears.

   For reasons I could not understand, I 
felt happy for Ellie. The good side of 
Barry, the side that didn't want to 
philander, that side of him had left her 
a promise for what their life together 
could have been. Maybe some women would 
have sold that ring faster than you could 
say money-back guarantee, but I knew 
that, for Ellie, it represented something 
else. A love - imperfect, to be sure - 
but still precious, still something to be 
treasured.

   And wasn't it treasure all the players 
from our drama of this week had been 
looking for? I checked to see if the cake 
had cooled as Ellie, Tom, and Arch fed 
too many homemade dog biscuits to our 
spoiled hounds. Barry had used stuff - 
not always legally his to give, mind you 
- to buy admiration and love. Shane, 
Page, Pam, and most tragically of all, 
Victor, had wanted material goods to 
assuage feelings of inferiority, sadness, 
and loss. Living in resentment, Page 
spent enormous sums to rent jewelry and 
buy cars that equaled Pam's. Shane, 
driven to please his wife, always lived 
on the brink of financial disaster. Pam 
and Page competed instead of enjoying 
each other's company; the two sisters 
drained their financial resources where 
they could have just spent time together.

   Nor was I immune. For months, I had 
worried that my son would stop loving me 
if I failed to buy him a hugely expensive 
birthday present. But that wasn't what 
success as a mother was about, was it? 
Now, seeing him bask in Tom and Ellie's 
appreciation of his riddle-solving 
ability, I didn't even think he cared 
about the darn guitar.

   Over the din of dogs and happy 
chatter, Marla's voice rose shrill and 
loud from beyond the front door. "Open 
up!" she shouted. "You can't have this 
party without me!" She kicked at the 
door. The dogs howled and raced toward 
the hall. "What does it take to get one 
of those pastries I know you're gobbling 
up in there?" my friend shrieked.

   We all tumbled out from the kitchen, 
people falling over dogs and one another, 
and pulled open the front door. Marla, 
grinning triumphantly, was balancing 
another cake, plus a bulging bag of 
gifts.

   "Hey!" she crowed. "Where do you think 
I've been these last few days? Shopping 
for Arch! Now somebody take this cake! 
I'm gonna drop it!" Ellie reached through 
the door, relieved Marla of the pastry 
box, and lofted it above the dogs' 
leaping attempts to get it.

   From beside the door, Marla then 
produced a black-and-red guitar that 
looked about twice as expensive as the 
one I'd originally bought Arch. Arch 
cried out with joy.

   Then, like a magician, Marla sashayed 
sideways. She cried, "Ta-da!" From behind 
her, Julian appeared.

   "I'm here!" he hollered. "Happy 
birthday!"

   He didn't even make it into the hall. 
I suppose that to the neighbors, we - 
Arch, Tom, Ellie, yours truly, and both 
dogs - looked like a football team. How 
else could a group of people and hounds 
surge forward in such a perfect wave? Nor 
would the neighbors have understood why 
we were yelling and carrying on. This was 
April the fifteenth, for crying out loud. 
Nobody was happy on tax day.

   But we were. After I hugged Julian, 
and Arch had given him a cool high five, 
Arch turned to me.

   "Hey, Mom," he said, "I love you." He 
gave me a tight, firm hug.

   "Happy birthday," I said. And I hugged 
my son back.